Dead Cities, Red Seas, & Lost Ghosts
by Kira
Summary: Sam and Dean visit relatives, take in the sea air, and encounter a lost ghost with lessthangood motives while attempting to figure out Sam's new abilities all in a classic lighthouse ghost story.
1. Prologue

**Dead Cities, Red Seas, & Lost Ghosts  
**by Kira  
PG-13 **  
Summary:** Sam and Dean visit relatives, take in the sea air, and encounter a lost ghost with less-than-good motives while attempting to figure out Sam's new abilities all in a classic lighthouse ghost story.

Prologue

He had always thought red tide referred to the color of the ocean as the sun was setting, when it turned a reddish version of itself and rolled towards a half-circle like the sun was _supposed_ to be a different shape that what schoolchildren thought.

Perhaps he was like the water; rolling in and out no matter what appeared before him, accepting everything he saw as normal, expected, _natural_. Changing colors as things came, a chameleon in a world of monsters and skeptics. You could hate the sea when it turned red, but never hate the thing itself; you still loved the scent, the sounds, and those waves crashing on the shore. Reject the color of the moment, not the object itself.

But as he stood atop a cliff overlooking the Atlantic as it slowly eroded away the seaside, he found red tide had nothing to do with the sun.

"It's a bacteria," quips the know-it-all at his side. He resists an urge to smack his brother on the back of the head to learn more information. "Flesh eating. It's actually pretty gross."

"And it's red?" Dean asks. Of course it was red -- why else would they call it 'red tide?' But part of his brother enjoys the intellectual superiority he holds over Dean -- it's the only kind he has -- and Dean isn't going to take that away from him. It doesn't bother him; compromise is giving away a little pieces of you soul, but he'd gladly give the entire thing.

Sam gives him that sideways look, rolling his eyes before shoving his hands in his pockets and glancing back at the lighthouse towering behind them. "Yeah. You know, this might not be our thing after all."

"Ya think?"

"Yeah. Listen. They probably just had an accident and fell in or something."

Dean scoffs. His brother's inexperience and time away shines through sometimes; he looks for logical conclusions where the illogical makes the most sense. Rationalization is the enemy of their work and Sam's been trained by the best of them.

"Right. A whole family just...falls into the ocean one night and happen to knock themselves out so the bugs just eat them."

"Bacteria."

"Which takes even longer, right?" Dean frowns. The cliff is high and even he's getting a little dizzy standing there, looking down into the ocean as it changes into that midnight blue of night. Hate the tide, not the water. "Does this bacteria eat the bones?"

"Probably not."

That settles it. He gives the cliff and the ocean beyond one last glance before tugging on his collar and turning back towards the lighthouse. They're the only people for miles around; whaling isn't exactly a profitable business around here anymore, and most of the families left decades ago, leaving just a smattering of cottages and a few high-end mansions.

"You coming?" he calls over his shoulder. When Sam doesn't respond, he stops and turns around, instincts ruling over common sense.

His brother's gaze is focused on the rusted green swing set behind where the keeper's house once stood. One of the swings remains, swaying in the slight breeze. It creaks as it goes back and forth. Sam's captivated by it.

"Hey, Sam!"

His brother holds up a hand but doesn't turn his head.

"Great," Dean mutters as he walks back to Sam's side. Find the bones, salt them, burn them, get away from this dead city and it's tall, creepy lighthouse. "Plugged into the Psychic Friends Network now, huh?"

"Can you just lay off for a minute?" Sam retorts. Dean huffs and fiddles in his pocket with his Zippo, itching to get this done with. Something about this just _bothers_ him, irks him in the wrong way, and his instincts haven't failed him yet.

Sam just stands there watching the swing with that doe-eyed look he gets whenever people need to see a degree of innocence in one of them in order to be convinced they aren't creeps or con artists. It's a look Dean himself could never pull off, and he's a bit jealous. The swing sways a bit more, then stops dead.

"Okay, that's a bit creepy," Dean remarks. The swing is halfway through a small arch, sitting at a forty-five degree angle with the ground.

"Just shut up."

Fine. Dean crosses his arms and leans back on his heels, trying to ignore the hairs raised on the back of his neck. Sure, he isn't the psychic one, but it doesn't take that to understand something odd is going on here. "Sammy, c'mon."

The swing falls with a clang of rusted iron that reverberates over the side of the cliff and fills the brothers' ears. Dean's ducked a bit, a hand on Sam's shoulder just in case, but there's nothing but the subtle creak of the wind against the collapsing chain link fence surrounding the complex.

"There was someone on that swing set," Sam states as if it's some startling revelation. Dean just scoffs and removes his hand from his brother before he notices and starts one of his chick-flick conversations about feelings.

"No shit, Sherlock. Did you _see_ that?"

"Yeah."

And finally, they're off to the car. Dusk has fallen, but every three seconds or so, the light atop the lighthouse swings around and illuminates the car in a bright white light that reflects off the glossy finish almost painfully.

"So, if that tide doesn't eat the bones, I'd say we have a pretty good chance of finding them."

"Dean, we don't know the first thing about this place," Sam says, the ever-constant voice of reason.

Dean pushes open the trunk with a creak, although this one's from cared for metal opposed to the rusting set behind them. He's propping up the spare tire compartment before he replies, "The faster we're out of here, the better. I don't like cliffs."

"Have you even considered how you'd find the bones? What are you going to do, wade out there through flesh-eating bacteria to find them? The tide's been eroding the cliff for decades; they could be anywhere."

"Has anyone ever told you what a pick-me-up you are?" Dean smirks. "Seriously, Sam, you think too much." He grabs a shotgun and a flashlight, tosses a flashlight to Sam, and slams the trunk closed.

"Yeah," Sam comments, following his brother up the slight hill to the door of the lighthouse, "and sometimes you don't think enough."


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

(one week earlier)

"Man, there's nothing like New England girls." Dean revs the engine of his classic car as they drive at thirty-five along the harbor, windows rolled down, music blasting. Most of the people walking along the boardwalk cast nasty glances in their direction, but Dean Winchester's always had a one track mind, and it's currently occupied with a group of girls walking down the opposite side of the street in matching khaki shorts and brightly colored polo tops.

He's halfway out the window as they roll by, and gives them the biggest smile he can muster before the car trailing them honks. The driver motions to the speed limit sign, and with a sheepish grin, Dean gives the car a little more gas to pull them out of the crawl they've been cruising at.

Sitting beside him in the passenger seat, Sam Winchester laughs.

"You were defiantly going to school on the wrong coast, Sammy," Dean teases, smacking his brother on the shoulder. "They totally dig me."

"Right," Sam replies, folding up the map he'd been reading. "Let me guess, it's the car."

"Damn straight."

After months of traveling with his sarcastic, smart-ass brother, Sam's getting better at fast retorts. And cheap shots.

"So that's why you spend hours waxing it in the middle of the night."

Dean's horrified, and his eyes flicker from the road. "Uh...you know about that, huh?"

"Yeah, I know about that. Remember? Nightmares?" _And I freaked out the first time I woke up and you weren't there._ There's lots of that, things left unsaid between them. When he was little, Sam was sure Dean could hear his thoughts; secret conversations, perfect teamwork -- even when climbing a tree they seemed to work together, anticipate where the other would climb next and accommodate.

But at ten, Sam realized his father had raised them that way, trained them to work perfectly as a team, and his ideas of a secret connection were broken. His brother was a thick as a rock, anyway; how could he have ever thought Dean could read his thoughts, would even _care_ about his thoughts?

And he kept that attitude until about three months ago, when he found his brother waking up before Sam's nightmares even finished, lying there with just the right thing to say to quell Sam's fears and let him get some more sleep. Or when they worked together so well, it had to be more than instinct and training.

Dean stops at a light and gives Sam a look that seems to reply to words unsaid. After the first time Sam awoke alone, Dean always kept the door or window open when he stepped outside, letting Sam see at least his shadow.

He had a feeling waxing the car twice a week was about more than keeping it shiny for the girls.

Giant cruise boats and millionaire yachts share harbor space to their right, masts shooting up into the bright blue sky. Spring on the east coast is pretty, temperate, and a welcome alternative to the dull fields of the Midwest. Sam leans on the window frame and admires the view; it looks like a painting to him, and for a moment, a sharp pain in his chest reminds him of Jess and her brief painting period before settling on photography.

The scene flows past him, then slows. He growls and swats his brother.

"Dean, c'mon, man."

"Red light."

"You slowed down to catch it."

Dean looks insulted. "Ouch, Sam. I'm not that shallow."

"Yes," Sam replies, smiling, "you are."

"I thought you knew me better than that. Listen to you, my own brother, knocking me down." But he's slow at the uptake when the light turns green, and for once, Sam's more than mildly annoyed with his brother's driving. When he complained he drove too fast, he didn't mean Dean needed to drive at ten miles an hour.

Dean continues. "Just because you're still pining doesn't mean I can't get any."

"Wait, what?" The scenery no longer interests Sam, and he turns sharply to face his brother. "Did you...pining? Is that what you think?"

"Hey, listen, I understand, man. Just remember, not all of us found that perfect, normal girl."

If he didn't know better, Sam would think there was a compliment somewhere in there. But the words Dean use, those crude, violent words, however well he means or nicely he's trying to speak, it always come out sounding wrong or insulting. He doesn't want Jess explained in those kinds of tones or dirty words.

"I thought we said we weren't going to talk about this."

"Yeah, well, you've got to sometime."

_He means well_. It's a mantra Sam chants to himself every day. "Can we just get some food?"

Dean grunts in response and turns the wheel wildly to the left, bringing them away from the harbor and the pretty girls shopping in the upscale stores on the boardwalk. Without a permanent address for the last few months, Dean's stash of phony credit cards is running as low as his cash, and they drive for a few miles to find somewhere reasonably cheap to eat. It takes more than a few minutes before Dean finally settles on a fast food place out in front of a strip mall containing a grocery store and hairstylist, among other things.

More of that greasy food that makes up their diet. To think, at one time, Sam ate healthy food and stayed away from chain restaurants and diners that looked like they failed their health inspections. Dean thrives on such places; his ability to find them would be eerie if they didn't make hunting evil and oddities their job.

Local and national newspapers sit in a holder near the door, and Dean swipes one before walking up to the counter. For someone who lamented about school and abhorred reading when he was younger, Dean certainly does his share of newspaper reading. Every day, front to back, every section and advertisement, and he doesn't complain.

When they've ordered, grabbed their food on plastic trays, and sat down, Dean flicks open the paper and starts reading while absentmindedly munching on some fries.

"You know, if you find something, we can go," Sam tries. He sees his brother's forehead wrinkle over the top of the paper and sighs. Why does _he_ have to be singled out, _special _even?

"No dice."

"I don't understand this."

"What?"

"Your sudden obsession with this psychic thing," Sam says.

The newspaper comes down and Dean quickly scans the small eat-in area for any bystanders who heard Sam's last comment. He shakes his head at his brother; _never reveal anything in public_, something his brother just hasn't grasped yet.

"Keep your voice down," Dean admonishes. "You've just gotta face facts, Sam. Things are attracted to you, and I'm not getting my head ripped off by a banshee just because you're suddenly plugged in."

"Banshees don't have any psychic abilities," Sam carefully corrects him. Dean folds the paper up into a mishmash of creased pages and shoves it to the side of the table to give him room to eat his late lunch.

"That doesn't matter," he replies through a mouthful of cheeseburger. "What matters is you're a walking spotlight."

"Gee, thanks, Dean. Didn't know you cared."

His brother smiles up at him. "Aww, of course I care, Sammy!" He laughs to himself and takes another bite. "Plus, we're a little low on cash..."

"Wait a second, you're not," -- Sam leans in close, this comment more secretive than declaring he's a psychic -- "you're not thinking of hitting up our relatives for some cash."

"Of course I am," Dean admits. "Why the hell else would I drive all the way out here?"

Sam crosses his arms, lunch forgotten in front of him. "To interrogate our aunt. An aunt, I might add, I've never met."

"Yeah, you have." And here Dean falls silent, his eyes flickering to look out the window instead of at his brother, his brother who doesn't remember meeting his mother's side of the family. _Just as well_. No one likes to remember their relatives that way, dark, sad, with wet cheeks and empty eyes.

Sam catches this, realizes exactly _when_ he met his mother's only sister, and toys with his food for a second. "Well, I don't remember."

"She'll remember you, that's for sure. Couldn't stop talking about you and your chubby cheeks."

A hand self-consciously flies up to Sam's cheeks, and he frowns as Dean breaks into loud, obnoxious laughter.

"At least I wasn't goofy-looking."

"Hey," Dean says seriously. "I was _not_ goofy-looking. That lady's just got things mixed up or something."

"Right."

"Don't laugh, little brother," Dean tells him, motioning with a fry in Sam's direction. "_I'm_ the cute one. Past forgotten."

Sam snickers and plucks the fry his hand, quickly popping it in his mouth before Dean can protest. "Yeah. Because relatives are the best when it comes to forgetting the past."

--

Storm clouds are already forming when they pull up to the ferry dock, a line of cars marking the entrance. Dean pulls the Impala up behind a poorly kept Chrysler LaBaron; he sneers in its direction as he puts the car in park.

"Look at that," he says, referring to the car with a hand. "How can they _do_ that?"

"I think it's more of _not_ doing anything," Sam quips beside him.

"It's just not right."

Sam laughs at his brother's disapproval of modern car care. "Not everyone's obsessed as you."

"There's a difference between obsession and respect. That person doesn't respect their car. Don't respect your car, it won't respect you."

A light sprinkling of drizzle dances on the hood and sends those walking leisurely to the ferry into sprints for the shelter of the boat. Dean rushes to roll up his window, Sam doing the same, and flicks on the panel with a twist of the wrist before leaning back in his seat.

"I hope we don't have to stay here too long," he comments. "Hand me the box."

Sam leans into the back seat to retrieve Dean's box of cassettes -- just once, he'd like to be able to pick which one they listened to, ever since he snuck a few more _acceptable_ tapes into the jumbled mess -- and hands it over.

"Where, here? The line's already moving," Sam replies.

"Not what I meant," Dean says while digging through the box. "With them, on the island. I can't stand staying in one place for too long."

Sam shakes his head. "It might be nice. You never know. And are you going to start moving soon?"

Dean shifts to drive and gives the car a little gas before stopping again, throwing Sam a look that asks, _are you satisfied?_ -- it was futile; they moved a few inches.

"Aww, shucks. You're right. My desire to be rooted down with relatives is untapped." Dean plucks a tape out of the box and shoves it in the cassette player. "_Please_. In, out, back on the road. We don't have time to hang out and eat apple pie."

A few more inches forward. Shift into park. Sam sends his brother a quizzical look.

"Not exactly apple pie," he smirks. "Maybe some good food. Man, I could do with some home cooked food."

"It's overrated," Dean says. "Totally."

Sam shakes his head. "You just say that because you haven't had any in years."

"And yet," Dean replies, "I'm still sayin' it's overrated."

The line continues forward. There's a jolt as the car runs over the edge of the dock onto the ferry; the car in front of them stops a bit short and Dean has to slam on the breaks to avoid hitting it.

"I swear, if my car gets one dent in it..."

--

Angela Browning, formerly of the MacKenzies, bought a nice, two story house when she married her husband, a construction foreman who personally oversaw the construction of their "dream home" over the four month period it took to build. Like the rest of the houses on the block, and throughout the entire neighborhood, the Brownings were striving for a traditional-looking home to fit in with the rest of, not to mention the strict building guidelines set down by the historical society.

The family doesn't mind the high prices typical of island living, nor do they utter a peep about snowstorms and sub-zero temperatures. Their life is the perfect cookie-cutter shape they strived for, and little was done to pull them out of shape. Three children have come and gone, giving the once sparkling new home that lived in feel that only children can give, says Angela.

Rain fell with ferocity, the blue skies of earlier nothing more than a memory as storm clouds blew in and unleashed their load.

Angela's their best bet, according to Dean, when it comes to their mother's family. From what Dean's said, and it isn't much, they weren't too excited when one of their daughters decided to marry and ex-Marine turned car mechanic and move to the Midwest, and made their objections known. Loudly. But Mary Winchester-formerly-MacKenzie was in love, and that was that. The family came for the wedding, and Angela was the only one who called when either of the boys were born.

And she was the only one who spoke to any of them at her sister's funeral.

"She's nice. And the only one I could track down," Dean explains. The rain makes pitter-patters on the roof, filling the car with loud metallic clanks that go in time with the music playing just under their conversation. "Her number was in dad's journal. I figure she's as good as anyone."

"And what exactly are we trying to find out?"

"I want to prove a theory."

That's something new, though Sam has a hard time containing his laughter as he pictures his brother working through the hypothesis method in a laboratory. "Going to clue me in?"

"Nope."

It's not often Dean keeps something from Sam, not after his speech about how they were 'in this together' and 'secrets could get one of them killed.' Not that Sam's naive; he knows his brother's got some secrets he's never going to tell no matter how much his doppelganger wanted to. Sam has a few of his own, and if his brother's not going to trust him with something as small as a theory, well, Sam wasn't going to let him in on anything now.

"Stubborn ass," Sam mutters.

"Jerk." Dean slows the car -- there aren't any girls around this time, not in this rain -- and double-checks something in their father's journal before pulling up in front of a quaint two story house of white with blue trimming. He kills the engine but only leans back in his seat.

"What?" Sam asks, hand already on the door. He _wants_ to meet his aunt, feels this undeniable _need_ to meet some member of their family outside his brother and father just to prove they exist, that they're not alone after all.

"Just give me a second, okay? Geeze, impatient, are we?"

"I just want to get out of this rain," Sam lies.

"Bullshit."

They've driven for over twenty hours, taking only bathroom and food breaks, and now, when they're finally there, Dean has to sit back and move as slowly as he can. He's not scared of many things, but Sam can recognize that look in his brother's eyes when he's preparing to face something he'd rather not. Dean wasn't one to do things he didn't want to do, and from the look on his face, he was dreading getting out of the car and knocking on that door.

So why were they really here?

Time for Sam to take things into his own hands. "I'm going," he declares while opening the car door. It creaks, and the sound of rain is even louder than before.

"Fine, fine, I'm getting out, okay, Sunshine?" Dean gets out of the car like something was forcibly pulling him out; a limp rag doll on strings.

The brothers walk side by side through the rain along the decorative stone path leading up to the house, built-up water squishing under their sneakers. The porch lights are the only illumination guiding them, and with heavy feet they climb the four steps up onto the broad porch running the entire front of the house.

Dean looks expectantly at Sam. "Let's get this over with."

Sam wants to say something, ask him what's wrong, but he's got a feeling it has to do with his last memory of his aunt and the particulars of that meeting.

He rings the doorbell.

There's a huff and a shout from inside, then the sound of footsteps near the door. Dean's shoved his hands in his pockets and is standing off to the side, leaving Sam in the pathway of the door; clearly, he's going to take whatever the initial reaction is on his own.

When he's admiring the sheer curtains in the windows on either side of the door, a hand suddenly reaches out and grasps one. Sam jumps back a bit, but relaxes when a face peeps out from behind them. An older, weathered face.

The door swings open.

"Can I help you?" This must be Alex Browning, the former construction foreman turned city councilman. His hair's peppered with grey, a pair of glasses perched on his nose. He eyes Sam, then takes a step forward to see Dean hiding a bit off to the side. "Dean, kid, that you?"

"Hey there," Dean waves lamely.

Alex's eyes brighten and he steps out on the porch to envelop Dean in a hug. Closeness and touching has never been big in their family -- their father grew more and more distant as the years passed -- and Dean awkwardly accepts the hug by hesitantly wrapping an arm around Alex's back and patting him a few times.

"You've grown up," Alex states. Sam can almost hear the typical Dean response in his head -- _obviously_ -- and is surprised when all Dean does is smile sheepishly and cast a glance in Sam's direction.

And Alex's eyes follow Dean's gaze -- just when Sam thinks he has his brother figured out, he goes and does something so out of character yet so _him_ that it forces Sam to re-evaluate some of his conclusions.

His uncle -- it's so hard to think of this man in that way -- turns on Sam and smiles widely, though there's some strain in those eyes that wasn't there before. It makes Sam uneasy, but they came all the way out here to see this man and his wife, and he's not going to jeopardize this. So when Alex wraps his arms around him and gushes about how Sam's all grown up now, he hugs back, though not as tightly as he could have.

"You boys are soaked. Come inside; Angela will be thrilled to see you."

He leads them inside, but not before Dean can elbow his brother in the side. "What's wrong with you?"

Sam's been wondering the same thing ever since leaving Stanford with the smell of smoke sticking to his clothes.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

As he walked into the warm, dry house, Dean considered how he'd handle facing Angela Browning -- _Auntie Angie_. Not that it should be that big of a deal. But he'd spent the last ten years trying to disconnect himself from the memories of his mother's death, her funeral, his father's sudden shift into alcoholism -- anything that distracted him from the task at hand. From finding whatever set him down this crazy path, darkened whatever happy, tiny memories he had left.

So when she came out of the kitchen, all blond with strands of grey, he found himself wondering if that's what his mother would have looked like had she lived. Aged, but still beautiful, with that spark of _something_ in her eyes that always kept her amused. And wondering brought back all those memories of running around in the backyard pretending they could fly --

-- no. Here. Now. No point in thinking about something you couldn't do anything about.

"To what do we owe this pleasure? Your father's not hiding out in the car, is he? Because I told him years ago I was over that incident with the ice cream." She speaks in hushed tones; she was the older sister, the wiser, protective one.

Dean's silent, so Sam clears his throat. "Uh, no. It's just us."

"Good," Alex scoffs behind them.

Good ol' Alex, the one man who glared at John Winchester at his wife's funeral, the one who never offered his condolences or gave a kind word of any kind. His grudge went far beyond John's occupation or past in the service; it was a clear conflict of character that would never be resolved.

And it seemed it never would.

Angela tosses her husband a look, but doesn't say anything to defend her brother-in-law. Instead, she grabs Sam and pinches his cheeks.

"You were the most adorable baby," she almost pouts. "And the happiest, remember that?"

Dean shifts his feet. They don't talk about life before, when everything was right and normal, and he figures a lot of Sam is missing from himself because Dean's too stubborn to tell him about it. "Yeah."

"Really?" asks Sam.

"Oh, yes. Giggling and smiling all the time." Angela puts an arm around Sam's shoulders and leads him to the couch, where the pair sits down. This conversation's heading straight for embarrassing territory, and when Dean thought up the grand idea of hitting up his relatives for money, it seemed an okay trade.

He hadn't stopped to consider the tirade of comments he'd get from his brother in the days, hell, weeks following.

He almost groans as Angela fixes her gaze on him.

"You were so good with him, always playing. Tell me you're still nice to him."

"Oh, yeah. Totally nice, all the time," Dean smiles, and he can tell Sam's just ready to burst with all the comments he wants to say. Great. Sam can get him in much trouble as Angela teeming with tales from their childhood.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all...

"Don't joke. You dote on your brother, and we all know what."

"Dote?" comes Sam's voice, and he's absolutely beaming. "Really. I never knew." The last part's directed at Dean with a wicked, shit-eating grin practically screaming _you're gonna hear about this for the rest of your life._

Well, this just isn't going to stand, and before any more words can fly out of Sam's mouth and drown Dean even more, he smashes his heel down on Sam's toes and gives him a smirk of victory.

But Sam's got Angela all figured out and it's only been ten minutes. "Ouch."

"Dean!" Angela says.

For a moment, anger flashes up inside Dean, but then he remembers what it was like to have someone actually yell at him in that tone of voice, and thinks it mighty pathetic that, for a second, he actually enjoyed getting yelled at.

--

"Wow. She's great."

Sam neatly places his shoes, paired together, at the foot of the bed in the guest room. The room's conservative, an office converted into a spare bedroom by the addition of a single twin bed from the bedroom of one of their cousins, but it still has that dark, serious feel to it, fighting back against the floral patterned comforter.

"Yeah, well, she wasn't always that way," Dean grumbles. In contrast to his brother, he flicks his shoes off and leaves them wherever they land. "People are always nice when they've got guests."

"Did you notice that they never asked why we are here?" he decides to ask instead of giving more fuel to whatever fire Dean's got going in his head. It's a deflection technique that usually works, but Sam's pretty sure Dean wouldn't reply if Sam indulged him one of these times.

Dean shrugs. He probably didn't care less if they noticed or not; their room was free, they didn't have to pay for food, and for once, there wasn't some creature lurking outside waiting to be dealt with.

"Don't you think that's a bit odd?"

"They're not exactly the type of people we run into," Dean counters.

"No, they're actually _welcoming_."

Soft chuckles fill the room as Dean slips under the blanket draped over the worn-out couch across the room, his feet hanging off over the armrest. "Just part of the job."

"I just have an odd feeling, that's all."

At this, Dean leans up and props his head up on his hand, facing Sam. "Really, now? What's Madam see-into-the-future say now?"

"Shut up."

"Lighten up, dude."

Right. Because Dean was so kind when it came to Sam's newfound abilities, he felt all warm and fuzzy when it came to sharing his strange feelings. Nothing like constant berating and pop-culture references from the only other occupant of a moving vehicle to help you express yourself.

"You're such a jackass, Dean," he mutters angrily.

The sheets under the comforter are also floral print, but they're an improvement over the generic starched white or blue sheets of featureless motel rooms across the country. These have the softness of fresh laundry with fabric softener, something he's only experienced a few times before, back when they actually lived in a house and with Jess.

He snuggles into the bed like he's five years old again, when pulling the covers over his head could shut out all the bad things in life. Tempting fate, Sam pulls them over his head, but is only treated to a canopy of color as the light streams through the flowers and onto his face.

"Turn off the light," he groans. Let the colors disappear so he can pretend that nothing exists.

Click.

In the darkness, it's like every other motel room they've stayed in over the past few months, with Dean shifting next to him until he finds just the right position (that, inevitably, he never awakes in) and his own breathing echoing in the room.

Shift. "What kind of feeling?"

"Like we're not supposed to be here." Sam pulls the covers from over his head. "We are, I mean, but not _here_."

"Okay."

Okay? That's all he had to say? No quips about being plugged into the Psychic Friends Network or communing with spirits. Just 'okay?'

He turns over, hand under the pillow, to try to make out his brother's shape in the darkness. Dean's sprawled on his back, one leg dangling over the edge of the couch, an arm thrown over his face. No preoccupations, no fear of falling asleep, just _there. _

Sam pulls the covers over his head again.

--

Like everything else in their life, it was too good to last.

Three days of free room and board, of conversations about long-forgotten events and tale of their mother in her youth, came crashing down around them just as the sun started to set and cast its amber rays across the blue-gray sky characteristic of New England.

Sam's nagging feeling that they were in the wrong place persisted throughout the entire span of their stay, his eyes straying now and again off into the distance, always in the same direction. Into nothingness, it seemed, off towards the central part of the island where there was nothing but the occasional house and a large cranberry farm.

And Dean caught every one of them from his position scowling out on the front porch, most often with a beer in hand to avoid his aunt. Not that he disliked her in any way. It just became a little too painful to watch her interact with Sam, to pat him on the shoulder or laugh at one of his lame-ass jokes.

To remember his mother doing that for Sam, and knowing she'd only been able to do it for as many months as they'd been on the road.

Sure, Dean now appreciated what little time he'd had, but that didn't negate the fact that he craved more in the vacuum created by the absence of his father. Then again, he wasn't a child and shouldn't need a parent around just to feel _something_.

So he sits out on the porch in the drizzle of spring and does his best impression of his father just to piss everyone off. Get angry at him for acting like a jackass and he can get angry right back and distract himself.

He knew he'd succeeded when Alex came home that night and paused on the porch just after opening the door with a deep frown on his face. It sticks there for a moment, and Dean, committed to this track of self-destruction for the sake of his sanity, doesn't even turn to look at Alex. Just takes a swig and keeps brooding.

"Blessed with your mother's looks and you act like your father," Alex comments sourly. "What a waste."

The comment draws Sam out from the kitchen where he sat toying with his phone checking emails, and Angela follows close behind.

Dean's ready for this, been preparing for this. But what Alex decides to say next comes from far out in left field.

"I'd expect this from _him_," -- he points to Sam, spitting venom that causes Angela to gasp -- "but that's not saying much."

"Huh?" Sam frowns.

"Excuse me?" Dean gets up from the chair he'd been sitting in and puts the bottle down on the railing with a resounding _plunk_. Everything he'd done had been to get himself attacked, not Sam.

"At least you had some _decent_ parenting," Alex says.

"Wait a second," Sam interjects, turning to Dean, "is he saying -- "

"Yeah, Sam, he's sayin' you must be messed up because you were raised by dad," Dean finishes for Alex. "Or is it because he looks like him?"

Caught in his own words, Alex just stands there, angry, but embarrassed by what he'd said, or rather, _implied_. Behind him, Angela reaches out quickly to Sam.

"He doesn't mean it. I swear. It's just...Alex and your father never saw eye to eye, and you do look so much like him," she explains in a muddled rush of words.

"Oh, we saw eye to eye," Alex says gruffly. "Perfectly eye to eye. And I didn't like what I saw."

"Alex! That's their _father_ you're talking about," Angela exclaims.

At least someone here felt their father deserved some level of respect; he never knew if Sam was in a 'I hate my father' mood or not, most often discovering the mood he was in through petty arguments and blame that wasn't his to take.

"What? He deserves respect because he's got one kid brooding into a drink and the other so starved for attention he's latched onto my wife? You think any of our kids would do that?" Alex isn't an old man -- still in the middle of his life -- but when his face turns red, he ages years. The wrinkles around his eyes and on his forehead become more defined like the lines around his mouth as his frown deepens.

Self-conscious, Sam takes a step towards his brother -- and away from Angela.

Angela's heard enough, and she turns to her husband. "I can't believe you, Alex. You've fostered this grudge long enough. Don't you think it's time to just let it go?"

The boys stand off to the side, Dean still fuming with anger at Alex for insulting his father and his brother all in one breath. But he's comfortable with arguments, with the glimpses of truth you gain from heated words. His parents never argued -- if they did, he was too small to remember -- and is thankful for the temporary reprieve.

"We aren't supposed to be here," Sam repeats for what has to be the twelfth time since first mentioning it.

"You know, you keep saying that, but you don't say _why_," Dean says. He's annoyed at this whole thing and it comes out in his voice.

"It's not that...detailed."

Dean throws his hands up in the air as Angela and Alex continue to argue. "Great. Thanks, Sam."

"Hey, it's not like I _asked_ for this. I can't answer your _specific_ questions, just tell you what I feel, okay?"

"The way they're arguing, _I_ could have told you we shouldn't be here," Dean deadpans, motioning to the couple still fighting, oblivious to their side conversation.

"Thanks, Captain Obvious."

Here, Alex's voice swells so loud, neither of them can ignore the argument any longer. He practically booms his final nail in coffin into his wife's face, arms straight at his sides, hands balled into tight fists.

"We should have taken them when we had the chance! Then none of this would have happened."


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The porch is silent. Everyone's frozen where they stand, all their eyes glued to Alex as he huffs, breathing fast and deep from his final outburst. Sam wishes he would have been _paying attention_, would have heard exactly what was said after moving away from Angela because of Alex's accusation. Maybe what Alex just said would have made more sense that way.

Because, as it stands, it sounds awful dubious.

It's a few more seconds before Dean storms inside, slamming the screen door behind him. His footfalls grow softer, but Sam knows he's going to the room they've been sharing to pack their things haphazardly so they can _get out of there_. If only his brother wasn't so thick headed and bent on self-destruction, they could have left sooner, with smiles on their faces and good relations with their relatives.

Sam might look like his father, but Dean did the best impression.

"Angela," Sam starts, voice soft. "How did you know we were coming?"

"No. None of that nonsense," Alex interrupts, holding his hands up. "This is _exactly_ what I was talking about."

"How..." -- she pauses, fed up with her husband -- "How did you know I knew?"

Sam smiles. "You didn't seem surprised when we arrived."

Angela smiles shyly.

"You're filling his head with nonsense, Angela!" And here, Alex turns to Sam. "There's no such thing as...as..._ knowing_ things!"

"Well, I know things." Dean comes storming out of the house and tosses Sam's bag to him. "I know I'm not staying with someone who insults my family. Let's go, Sammy."

"Please don't go!" Angela says. "This is all just a big misunderstanding. Let's go inside and get some dinner and just forget about all this."

Dean's never been very forgiving, unless it comes to Sam or his father, and then he'll fall over backwards no matter what they've done. Something softens on his face; Sam can't tell _why_ or _what_, and he looks to be ready to forgive and forget.

Of all the odd feelings he gets from places and people, Sam wishes he could gain insight into his brother's head the most. To know what's going on up there, because there's no way Dean's going to tell him.

Sam has an idea, though, and it has to do with Alex's comment about attaching himself to Angela. The desire for a mother, though the idea of what a mother is has only been constructed by fairy tales and movies. He doesn't _know_ how it feels to have a real one, but he knows the last three days with Angela is the closest he's ever gotten.

He has the deepest feeling that's the reason why Dean's willing to let everything go.

"Just tell me one thing," Dean says, "and I'll forget everything. What is it about my dad that ticks you off so much?"

"He's a coward, which is what you'll become if you keep hiding from everything." Alex is defiant to the end, standing by his convictions, and Sam can't blame him for that. What he can't stand by is someone calling his brother a coward even if part of him believes it to be true.

Sam only ever saw his father and Dean fight physically once before, back after a hunt gone bad when Sam was only fourteen. He didn't know the particulars when they arrived home, but didn't need to. Dean was huffing and puffing in that way kids do when they reach eighteen and feel they know everything about the world.

Their argument was indecipherable to Sam, their words a mish-mash of swears and hunting words they'd created after years of training. He made out a few, about how their father had messed something up, or Dean had -- Sam wasn't sure. But it ended abruptly when Dean swung a nasty right hook that landed their dad on the floor and Dean with weeks of extra training to do as punishment.

He'd never asked what it was all about, respecting their silent compromise. Back then, Dean and their dad lived in a secret world Sam was only privy to once and awhile, and sometimes, he didn't feel he could ever fully understand it.

Before Angela could step up to defend her husband once again, Dean launches forward and delivers one of his patented right hooks, knocking Alex back against the side of the house. Angela shrieks.

"What the hell?" Sam asks, turning to Dean. His brother stands shaking out his hand, smiling in that crazy, deranged way when he'd done something bad but felt good about it.

Dean looks down on Alex. "You can call me whatever you want, but don't you ever insult my father or Sam. You understand me?" Alex nods weakly. "Good. Let's go, Sam."

Like always, Sam follows his brother down the steps to the car, throws his bag in the back seat at the same time as Dean, and falls into the passenger seat.

Neither glance in the rear view mirror as they drive away.

--

There aren't any chain businesses anywhere on the island, so the gas station -- one of two on the entire island -- is a pure mom 'n' pop operation, complete with full service and complimentary window cleaning. Even at seven at night, someone comes out when the sleek black Impala cruses into the station and up to one of four pumps.

A teenager, on the upper side of those troublesome ten years, jogs up to the car and whistles in appreciation. "Nice car."

"Nice car?" Dean repeats, stepping out to watch the kid's every move. "That's an understatement. This here's a beauty." He rubs his knuckles -- years of throwing punches and he still feels a little sting -- and leans against the trunk.

The windows are wide open, as they always are when the weather permits it. Sam sticks his head out the window and asks, "Hey, when's the last ferry?"

"Sorry, you missed it. Next one's not until eight tomorrow morning," the kid answers. Dean's still watching him and he certainly feels the pressure. Twice he fumbles with the gas cap before Dean has to lean over and undo it for him.

"There any cheap places to stay?" Dean says.

The guy practically laughs at him, but holds it in after catching the seriousness of the question. "You're kidding, right?" He says right in that snooty New England way, elongating the 'I' just enough to tell the boys they're way out of their element.

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

The kid clears his throat and watches the gas ticker. "No, sorry. Umm...there's an inn near town, but that's still expensive."

"How expensive are we talking about?"

"A hundred a night, and that's if you're a pretty blond." He laughs at his joke, catches the eye of Dean, and goes back to the task at hand. Finishes filling the car, puts the nozzle back, goes to grab the window washer.

"No, dude. No one washes this girl but me." Dean pats the car affectionately, then frowns at the fingerprints he just put on the black finish. He tries to buff them out with the sleeve of his coat, but leather isn't very conducive, and he lets it go. "You don't think I'm a pretty blond?"

"Excuse me?" the kid stutters. Inside the car, Sam howls with laughter.

"C'mon, I'm a pretty good lookin' guy."

Sam leans back out the window and leans on his arms. "Dean, I don't think he's your type."

"The guy at the inn might be, and we don't have that much money to shell out on a room."

"Trust me," the kid says, holding out his hand, "you're not his type."

Dean grumbles as he hands over the money -- gas on an island is expensive, and the Impala guzzles up gas hand over foot -- and checks his wallet, counting their remaining funds. There's not much left. The kid's still standing there, and Dean glares as he hands over a few dollars as a tip.

When he gets back in the car, he turns to Sam. "You know I don't like asking -- "

"I still have a few hundred left on my credit card," Sam interrupts. "Don't worry about it."

"I can pay you back."

"I said don't worry about it," Sam intones. Dean starts up the car and waves his brother off.

"I take care of my debts."

"I don't doubt it." He waits a second, watching the scenery as Dean pulls out of the station and turns left, heading away from their relatives and towards town.

Another small town, though it's refreshing that it's not located somewhere in the Midwest, where dust and dirt gets everywhere the longer you spend outside. They remind him too much of home, of his real home, with the wide open fields and lines of corporate-sponsored corn separating town from town, city from city, in that way that helps you identify where you are based on how much land is about.

Here, the land is hilly and open, but with lush green grass and old trees instead of the tan monotony of crops. Nothing like Kansas or the Midwest, which is a good thing. Maybe the dreams won't be so bad with the seaside air infecting everything; the older houses are discolored from weather and salt, showing how far the ocean penetrates the land here.

The purr of the engine lulls Sam into a half-slumber, eyes half-open but mind still alert as the scene twists and turns on the few roads radiating out from the town. Maybe it _is_ like Kansas; he can clearly tell where one part starts and the other ends with clarity found no where else in his life.

Clouds still linger above, but moonlight manages to cast a thin sliver like a soft spotlight, tracking them as the car speeds down the narrow island roads. The lull of silence grows too great, and Sam leans his head against the headrest, letting it roll down to his shoulder. Even in a bed that reminded him of better times, he found himself unable to sleep, and, as usual, the car has a magical effect on him, allowing him to find a little peace.

His eyes slip closed even though it's roughly 7:30pm, but all preoccupations about when someone's supposed to sleep, when it's _normal_ to do so, flew out the window months ago when his nightmares intensified along with his lack of sleep. The calmness washes over him.

When the car starts up a hill, it jostles Sam's eyes open. The sliver of moonlight reflects off something, and at first, he thinks it's another car, but soon realizes it's on the wrong side of the road. He sits up, narrows his eyes, and tries to make whatever it is out as the light reflects up and over something else.

"Wha...?" is all he manages to get out before the car speeds up just as he is able to make out someone standing next to --

-- the headlights flash over rows and rows of gravestones.

A shiver runs up Sam's spine as he tries desperately to make out who would be standing in the middle of a graveyard in the dark, and his head whips around to track the person.

As soon as he can see past the blind spot, the person's gone.

"You say something?" Dean asks from the driver's seat. Sam takes a breath before answering, touching a hand to his forehead. It's covered in cold sweat.

"Did you, did you see anything back there?"

Dean shakes his head. "Umm, no?"

Sam's hands are shaking. He doesn't respond; what the hell _was_ that?

"You okay, man?" Dean tries again. The car slows a bit. "C'mon, you look like you saw a ghost."

Sam just turns his head. He can't shake this feeling of _dread_ that's fallen over him.

"Aww, hell, no."

"I'm sure it was just...the lighting or something."

"I swear, you're a magnet for this shit."

Dean's humor relaxes him a bit, but not enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck relax. That feeling, the one he got the moment they arrived, is stronger now, has grown, and he's pissed that it keeps working in vague shapes instead of solid constructs.

"Oh, yeah?" Sam raises an eyebrow. Battling wits with Dean takes his mind of things. "Tell me you don't like the idea of hunting something."

"Only if I can see it," his brother admits. "You ever try to shoot something invisible?"

"You ever consider the fact that it was _invisible_?"

"Not when it was trying to kill me."

There are days Sam wants Dean to tell him about all the hunts he went on when he was away at college, about all the trips he took with their father when Sam stayed home and worked on schoolwork. He doesn't think it's a need to know what kind of monsters are lurking there in the dark, what possibilities await them, but his brother's compulsion to tell him about those years apart might show that Dean wants to know about Sam's boring life at college.

At least it would give him the opportunity to talk about Jess a little.

"Did you kill it?"

Dean smirks. "Of course I did."

Figures. He doubts Dean's ever left any job unfinished, and if he is, he'd never reveal it.

"Dean."

"Yeah?"

"You realize we haven't seen any hotels, right?"

He considers this for a moment. "If there are frilly curtains, I'm sleeping in the car."

Sam laughs, but his mind is still back in that little graveyard on the hill and the moonlight slithering over the gravestones like a snake hunting it's prey.

--

A storm rolls in around 2am, all thunder and lighting that interrupts the television reception each time a boom rattles the air and the wood of the old house. April is storm season, the blossom of spring always drenched in April showers, and it hits with iron knuckles as it rolls over the edge of the Atlantic and up onto the coast.

There's something unnerving about the inn. It's cute and quaint, but built for families now, and the room was set with two double beds and a decent sized couch with plain, striped curtains instead of lace. That sealed the deal for Dean, who, at 2am, was attempting to catch syndicated re-runs of all the shows he's missed while on the road.

But 2am isn't the best time to catch re-runs, and he's stuck sitting at the end of the bed on the floor watching an infomercial about some exercise machine. Dean snorts. If only they went into his line of business, they'd never need another exercise machine or diet plan as long as they lived.

Which might or might not be that long.

So long as that wasn't included on the brochure...

Oh hell, what was he thinking? Mortality and television don't mix; there's a reason he watches it when he's got some down time before or after a job. Heavy thinking isn't required, and if he focuses enough, he can block out all thought and let his brain absorb the mindlessness of the set.

Years of poorly-timed insomnia helped develop the ability to lip-read; his father became aggravated and grumpy when woken up in the middle of the night, especially if he smelled of the alcohol Dean learned to block out. So he would turn off the volume, sit three inches from the TV set, and try to figure out what they were saying. After three years, he could sit six inches away, and now, at twenty-six, he could sit across the room and follow everything with no problems.

Behind him, Sam slumbers on, twisted in his covers from two rounds of nightmares strong enough to make him struggle against unknown aggressors, but not enough to wake him up. The ghost earlier bothered him, but not enough to keep him from going to bed around midnight after a quick meal from the kitchen downstairs and a game of poker with cards Dean found in the nightstand drawer.

Fifteen dollars richer, which he immediately used to pay on his debt for the room, Dean tried to settle into bed but found his mind replaying Alex's finial assertion; would his father, a man who basically left him on his own to hunt, actually fight for custody against a well-adjusted married couple?

And how close had they really come to a normal, suburban life?

Hell, he would have offed himself if it came to growing up in the suburbs. All that normality and apple pie and cuddly feelings. Dean shuttered. Uck. Hugging could be worse than being covered with zombie bits.

At least this television has a remote control; most of the places they stay at spend more money on the coffee maker in the lobby than the upkeep of hardware in the rooms that the television was the least of his worries. He encountered a demon in the form of a broken sink in Des Moines that decided to leak water all night while he and his father slept, greeting them with not only a soggy carpet, but a huge bill to duck the next morning.

At least the curtains don't have lace.

The beds do have dust ruffles, though, and the light from the TV lends to monsters hiding under there where he can't see. The knife's still tucked securely under his pillow, half a world away, but there isn't anything lurking there, _couldn't_ be anything there. One monster a day was enough, and though Alex was technically human, he was beginning to be classified under _evil_ in Dean's mind.

A crash of thunder seems to agree with him, but it also takes out the electricity, plunging the room into darkness.

Great. Just great.

Grumbling, Dean stands and crosses the room to look out the window; the entire town couldn't be out, plus, this place just has that feel of shoddy wiring.

He pulls back the curtains and winces -- _there's_ the lace he was expecting, and holds it aside with a single finger while scanning the town outside. A few lights cast a glow from the harbor and that's it.

"C'mon!" he grumbles.

There's a shift and commotion from the other side of the room followed by the unmistakable click of a light that won't turn on.

"Power's out," Dean explains. He lets the curtain fall and wipes his hand on his t-shirt like the lace was some kind of contaminate.

That should have alerted his brother more than it did; in the dark, Dean can hear Sam grumble something and turn back over. A sigh gives him away, so Dean crosses the room and sits on the edge of his bed, kicking his feet up onto the other a few feet away.

"That ghost thing still bugging you?" he asks innocently. "Cause I've gotta say, you've seen a lot worse."

"No, the ghost thing isn't it," comes the crisp response. He sighs again and turns over. "Dean, why were you so miserable at Angela's?"

"You're skating pretty close to a Dr. Phil moment here, Sam. Might want to steer clear," Dean deflects Sam's question instinctively, the words out of his mouth before his brain has a chance to think. It wouldn't be the first time he'd speak without thinking beforehand, but it usually works in his favor, especially with pretty women.

"Seriously, man," Sam says. His eyes have gone all large and doe-like like Bambi's when he finds out his mother's dead. "I know you don't like to talk about things -- "

Dean interrupts with a wave of his hand. "Then don't ask."

"How can I not ask? You're my brother, Dean. And you punched your uncle less than twelve hours ago."

"Is that what's bothering you? That guy was a jackass. He didn't like you 'cause you look like dad. Who _wouldn't_ want to punch him out?"

"Me, for one."

"Oh, c'mon!"

Sam hesitates. "I really look like him, huh?" But it comes out as more of a dejected statement than a question that causes Dean to start chewing on his nails.

"Yeah, I guess," he answers around one of his fingers.

"Huh. No matter how hard I try _not_ to be like him, I guess I'll never really win."

"Hey," Dean asks with an air of impatience. If only the power hadn't gone out, he'd still be watching crappy infomercials and dreaming up ways to take those creeps out. "Don't be such a downer. Dad's not such a bad guy."

"Not a bad guy? Are we talking about the same John Winchester?"

Dean asks God, or whoever's still listening to him out there, why a weekend on the shore looking for some cash and answers has turned into a Lifetime movie of the week. Any second now, some thin chick with an eating disorder was going to come running through the door and start throwing shit because one of them fathered her child and refuses to support her. Or there's going to be a soft knock on the door, their father will be on the other side, and there will be a tearful resolution full of confessions and hugs.

"Hey, remember that guy I punched earlier?"

Sam snorts. "Remember that night you broke into my apartment?"

"Touché."

"So are you going to tell me, or am I going to have to guess?" Sam continues. Dean groans -- couldn't the kid take a hint and just _let it go_? Or was he so dense that sarcastic comments and snide remarks didn't get through to him as a signal that Dean didn't want to talk?

He's tired and drained and just doesn't want to deal with Sam and his touchy-feely moments, so he just lies back on the bed and throws a pillow over his face.

Sam starts singing.

It's nothing terribly good; his voice is nice, but not spectacular, and he chooses some sappy sounding tune from that alternative station he insists on putting on every time they near California. Dean lets him go for a few bars, but when the song goes high and Sam attempts the notes far outside his range, Dean roars, tosses the pillow across the room, and shoots his brother a death glare.

"You keep singing and I swear I will kick your ass," he growls. "At least sing something _worth_ singing."

"Yeah. Because guys screaming at the top of their lungs sounds _so much better_," Sam sing-says.

"It's better than that sappy shit you listen to," Dean retorts, relaxing.

But Sam's got him pegged after months of the road and years of childhood. "It doesn't -- "

"Let it go, Sam," Dean says with an air of finality. "You don't need to psychoanalyze everything I do, okay? There are some people who can get through the day without dishing it all out to a therapist."

"Just because I went to college doesn't mean I'm a therapist."

"No, but you took classes in that stuff," Dean replies as he gets up to retrieve the pillow he threw across the room. "Plus, lawyers interrogate people."

"Interrogate people? Dean, do you hear yourself?" Sam asks. He finally sits up, brown hair mussed by sleep. "I'm not trying to interrogate you, I'm just asking questions."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

Dean doesn't like questions when they're directed at him. Sometimes, when they walk into someone's home, he feels like an invading army come to pillage and take what they can without any thoughts as to the damage they leave behind. Those people, the ones he never has to face again, he can question. There is an evil to find and take care of, and that is a task above all compassion.

But when his brother questions him, he'll still have to face him in the morning, in the car, on a hunt, sit across from him in a diner. When all is said and done, he'll have to look at that face and those eyes that know the answers and see exactly what comes out when they leave the houses of those faceless, nameless people.

He doesn't like it. Never likes it. And he'll never admit he has the same look in the dark, where no one can mistake it for weakness.

--

Drizzle falls in the morning, but the waves roll onto shore with such force, the boats in the harbor sway like toys caught in the turmoil of bath time. They thunk and thud against the piers loud enough the insurance adjusters must be able to hear the damage occurring miles away, a mass of bruised hulls and flailing masts.

Sam holds his jacket over his head as he runs through the rain. The passenger door to the Impala opens with a loud screech, and he falls inside, a mass of rainwater shaking off onto the dash.

"Awww, man!" Dean complains, motioning to the water spots.

Sam ignores the complaint, but tries to find a dry part of his shirt to mop it up nonetheless. "The ferry's been docked in Hyannis until the storm passes," he explains.

"Which is?"

"What do I look like?" Sam asks. "A weather man? Or do you think lawyers get training in predicting the weather as well as interrogation techniques and therapy?" He's harsh, but doesn't regret it, not like usual. His brother's thick-headedness has finally gotten to him, finally cracked through his shell, and he thinks he'll go insane if he doesn't patch it up soon.

Dean shifts the car into drive and lets the engine roar out of the parking lot of the A&P, the only chain on the island, but it has seniority over most of the establishments. The outside looks nothing like a grocery store found in most towns and cities; instead, it resembles a mom and pop operation.

A few cars honk, but Dean doesn't pay them any attention -- at least no visible attention. Just tears out of the parking lot and drives randomly north, along the edge of the town where small bait shops dot the edge of the harbor. He passes a lobster shop before Sam can't take it anymore.

He opens the door while the car speeds down the road.

A totally crazy move, he knows. But he also knows his brother, and just as predicted, Dean slams on the breaks and skids a bit onto some yellow tall grass that hasn't seen landscaping in more than a few years.

"Are you _insane_?" Dean cries, more than a little miffed. He makes a move to lean over Sam and pull the door closed, but Sam blocks him. Dean's face is turning a particular shade of red reserved for nasty monsters that drive his car without permission, which, for a moment, amuses Sam. Let him feel the frustration Sam's felt for months.

"Are you?"

"Oh, no. We're not starting with this shit again. You close that door before any more rain gets on the seats."

"Or what?"

"Or I kick your ass so bad, you'll be _begging_ me to stop."

Sam keeps his hand on the handle, but doesn't make a move to close the door. "C'mon, Dean, we both know you wouldn't."

"Right. That's your game, isn't it?"

"See? _That's_ what I'm talking about. Those digs. Damnit, Dean, if you're angry about something, stop acting like you're twelve and just _tell_ me."

"Shut. The. Door."

It's an old-fashioned Western standoff with Dean at one end, Sam at the other, fingers dancing over silver revolvers waiting for the town clock to strike twelve. The drizzle continues to fall, flecking into the car to coat the dash and passenger seat. The engine continues to hum.

"I'll make you a deal," Sam starts. There is something college taught him, and that's mediation. "Tell me why we really came here, and I won't bug you anymore."

"How 'bout you close that door and we just pretend this didn't happen." Dean's voice is strained, but like Sam, he's also beginning to crack, just a little bit, but a small sliver's enough to get a chain reaction started. You can't teach an old dog a new trick, but hell if Sam's not going to try and figure his brother out before their collection of secrets gets them killed.

Dean's stubborn, and if it wasn't involving his car, he'd probably sit there and stare Sam to death, literally. But the rain's falling outside and Sam can _tell_ he can't stand seeing his precious car get all ruined.

What were the odds he'd tell a lie just to save the leather?

Pretty high.

But the truth will be hidden in there somewhere. He'll give himself away because deep down, he can't lie to Sam, but he can veil the truth in wit.

That's all Sam wants. An answer. Because this nagging feeling in the back of his head is screaming that Dean is the enemy, that whatever Dean wants to find out he can't because it'll ruin something, _cause_ something, _break_ whatever bond they've re-forged.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

In the end, Sam closed the door and Dean snipped at him about threatening to ruin his car -- an offence punishable by death and haunting, if and when such a thing happened.

"I told you, a theory," Dean told him, flat out.

"You drove all the way out here for a theory, something you could figure out over the phone?"

"You asked, I answered," Dean shrugged. "Now wipe that mess up."

So Sam did, because in truth, he respected his brother's admiration for their father's car and it _was_ a shame to see the leather seat spotted with rain. He grabbed a rag from the back seat -- a t-shirt of Dean's that had seen better days -- and cleaned off the leather and dash as best he could.

"I want to check out that cemetery," Sam declares after finishing up, his voice still holding a lingering of anger and frustration over his brother's inability to be perfectly honest with him. Not that honesty was something the brothers shared frequently.

Why expect it from Dean when Sam didn't give it freely himself?

Dean glares at him; his mind was probably mulling over a few games of pool and a nice beer to pass the time until the storm passes, and a trip to a cemetery on a less than pleasing day has never been Dean's idea of fun.

Or was it? The apparent thrill he showed while hunting would suggest he _enjoyed_ all facets of the odd and creepy, cemeteries included.

Still, Dean isn't giving in to Sam's sudden interest in weathered gravestones, even when they're standing on the side of the narrow road running down the middle of the old municipal cemetery. He stands off to the side, leaning against an old oak, arms crossed.

"What exactly are we looking for here?" he calls to Sam.

"I don't know," Sam replies in kind, roaming between the grey, monotonous stones.

"Alright. Let me know when you figure that out."

He can be an ass when he wants to be, but the tree helps keep him dry as his brother wanders around in a small cemetery, or rather, half a cemetery with no idea what he's looking for.

A cold breeze flicks small specks of rain against the back of his head, the leaves rustles above his head. All the sudden Dean feels a shiver travel down his spine, and that's when he's noticed Sam's stopped dead in his tracks.

The wind wraps around him, pulling him towards one of the stones. He feels like a kid on a windy day, when you can lean into the wind and feel like you're flying or being held up by some invisible force. Except now, he's being pushed by something he can't see, and he flashes back to Dean's comment about shooting at something invincible. It doesn't seem too inconceivable at the moment, and he turns to shout back to Dean when he freezes in front of a stone.

Sam crouches down to read the stone. Years of age and dirt have caked the surface, so he reaches forward to wipe it off, get a clearer read of who's it is and why they might be pulling him there.

When he touches it, the wind increases and he feels himself falling, falling...and a bright white light that blinds him, burns into his mind, and sends him tumbling backward.

He comes to a few seconds later, his tumble apparently enough to pull Dean from his position under the tree halfway between himself and the car. Dean's crouching over him, face concerned, eyes wide.

"Took a bit of a header there, huh, Sammy," he jokes. Sam tries to sit up on his own, but his vision's covered in a big black blotch that fades just enough at the edges to let him know his eyes are open. It makes it hard to get his bearings, and he feels a little dizzy.

Dean's hand's on his back, helping him sit up, and then he's leaning against an upright stone.

"Dude, you okay?" More serious than before, but not without that mischievous edge his voice has had for as long as Sam can remember. "You just went all stiff and fell over. It was kinda funny."

Only Dean would find someone falling over humorous.

"Yeah. Just a little blind at the moment."

"Blind?" Dean asks. "What kind of ghost are you communing with?"

"I'm not 'communing' with anyone," Sam retorts. "I'm not James van Praaug."

"Who?"

"For someone who keeps making pop-culture references, you're falling down on the job."

"Whatever, man. I know my stuff."

His vision's coming back, fading in from the edges. He can make out Dean's ears and part of his chin, and his hand resting just over his right shoulder on the stone. The center's still a huge black blur, but they're there for a reason and the rain's starting to fall heavier now. If they don't get out of there soon, they'll both be soaked and the interior of the Impala will be ruined.

So he tries to stand up. The hand over his right shoulder is suddenly on it, and he's pushed back down to the ground.

"Yeah, try getting up when you can see."

Sam's amazed Dean hasn't pestered him as to _why_ he's blind. He takes what he can get, though, and considers telling him when he realizes he doesn't really know himself.

They sit for a moment, breathing in the moist, cool island air, the calm before the storm. Both are soaked, the waterproof material moot from unzipped jacket, keeping just their arms dry.

With his hair plastered against his forehead, Sam didn't realize he could see again until he brushed his hair away from his face and eyes.

He pushes away from Dean with a quick okay and stumbles back to the stone, careful this time not to touch it. It's not that old -- there are several older, from when this was a whaling village -- the date of death is 1964. A child's grave.

"Hey, be careful," Dean advises from over his right shoulder.

"He was only twelve," Sam replies. His brother's concern proves the vision was something more, something that scared him.

Dean leans over next to Sam -- cloud have blocked out much of the sun above, casting the world in shakes of blue and gray -- and reads off the stone. "Thomas Chillins. What's so interesting about him?"

"I don't know," Sam says, frustrated. Annoyed by the rain, by that nagging feeling ringing in the back of his head, this compulsion -- need -- to be there, standing in front of a grave out somewhere they didn't belong. He felt lost, misplaced by the cosmic order that dictated their lives, then forgotten.

If not here, then where? Wouldn't life -- normal, orderly, messy -- direct them to be near those who cared for them, places that helped them along in some way? Perhaps, Sam thought sourly, roaming the country in a blur of shady motel rooms helped them along in a direction so far from normal, darkness marked both ends of the tunnel.

When would life be lived in anything but shades of gray and black?

"If you don't know," Dean says, jarring Sam from ever-darkening thought, "can we get out of this shitty rain?"

A glare would be in order if Sam didn't agree with him. The tingle at the back of his head leapt forward, ordering him to stay...stay forever, keep company, never leave.

Then there was Dean, hands on his hips, head cocked to the side, frown growing deeper every second.

It won over every feeling competing for dominance in his overcrowded head. "Yeah."

Dean claps him on the shoulder as they start back to the car -- away from the stone screaming for fellowship behind them.

"Don't worry, we'll check it out."

There are some days he feels Dean can read his mind as well as his outward demeanor. Some days, he's glad words can remain unspoken between them. Other days, he hopes Dean can't gleam a thing, afraid of what he might find.

--

Rather than spend the day scanning the internet, searching for any information it had to offer on the death of Thomas Chillins, Sam suggested visiting the library. Smaller populations, he explained, usually kept detailed records and locally-geared books in their library collections, and would prove more fruitful than the internet.

Dean figured a day in the library would satisfy his brother as well as give them something more constructive to do -- the television in the room refused to cooperate after the power returned.

Cobblestones make the car rock back and forth, rain dances on the hood, and Dean turns his music up louder to drown it all out. Beside him, Sam holds a tourist map snatched from the inn's front desk on raised knees. He squints out the windshield, wipers swishing over it dispelling water, and refers back to the map.

"Up three blocks, then take a right."

Below, the street gives way to normal pavement, and Dean pats the dash, muttering words of encouragement to the car. It's the only movement he makes.

"You're doing this to humor me, aren't you." It's more a statement than question, which makes Dean wonder why he said anything if he already knows the answer. "There's something there. _Someone_."

"We aren't in the business of helping lost ghosts, Sam. This is a waste of time." _Time that could be spent saving someone else_, but he doesn't say the last part aloud. "But seeing as we're stuck here, I can't think of anything else I'd rather do than go to the library with my little brother."

Sam snorts. "How many times have I heard that one before?"

"C'mon! I really do love libraries! All those books." He makes a face. "They smell old."

"That's because they _are_ old, Dean," Sam retorts. "And how many times have you wandered into the rare books collection? Once, twice?"

"Four times. And hated it every time. How can you spend so much time in there?" Dean's nose wrinkles and he takes the right turn a little too fast.

A shrug. "Some people do enjoy reading, you know, learning stuff?"

"I learn plenty."

The library grows larger on the left as Sam laughs. It's a large white building that tries its best to impersonate an ancient Roman structure, with thick columns lining the front. Written across the top against blue is Atheneum, a tribute to the Greek Goddess of wisdom and learning Athena. It reflects the high-brow society around them, suffocating them, so unlike the small towns they're used to visiting.

There's no parking next to the building, so Dean pulls into a space alongside the park after circling the block, in front of a pair of park benches empty of any lounging readers. In the rain, the garden looks dead, ghostly through a haze of grey water, but must be beautiful when the sun in shining.

Dean groans. Another library. For a second, he finds himself trapped in a memory. Thirteen year old Sammy running up the steps of the Wichita Public Library, his arms full of books thicker than the tree branches he should have been climbing instead of those cut cement steps. He stayed in the car, to watch and make sure he was safe, fine, okay as he returned his books.

And then it's the present, and Sam's already halfway up the steps before he turns and motions to Dean, a silent hand gesture speaking volumes: _what?_

So Dean shakes the memory from his head, pulls the keys from the ignition, and hops out into the rain, coat pulled up over his ears to protect his recently cleaned hair. No point thinking of the past, when he still viewed Sam as Sammy, as an innocent child lost in a world of madness he inherited.

"You okay, man?" Sam asks, shaking out his hair in the front hallway of the library. The floors are dark wood, the walls pale yellow and white with molding up top. Just inside the front hall, the check-out desk runs the whole of the room on the left side, where middle-aged women sit chatting.

"Yeah, fine. Just thinking."

Their boots echo as they walk past the women and through to the literature section. "Watch out, Dean. First thinking, then reading. I swear, it happens that way."

"Don't start, college boy," Dean retorts with maybe a little less gusto than normal. "I'll rub off you, just wait."

"Right." Sam smiles -- he's been smiling a lot more lately, like he's feeling his skin fits better now that he's developed new abilities -- and reads a sign up on a marble column. "No matter how much you play it, I'm not going to sing along to your Metallica tape."

Dean stutters as Sam leads them up a flight of stairs. "Sing along?"

And those are the small secrets you keep. The ones no one minds revealing, no one minds when they're discovered. They're covers for the larger ones, bigger ones that really matter.

He lets Sam enjoy his small victory, his foray into the private side of Dean Winchester, and wraps it around him like a warm blanket.

Musty odors invade his senses as they emerge up onto the second floor. Books line the walls, in some places two stacks deep. They circle a mass of tables with tiny lights, looking exactly how Dean would imagine a boring, old library would look. If he squinted hard enough, he could see Sam sitting at one of those tables, leaning over a book, jotting down notes as he turned a page.

But the mirage fades like smoke, and he's left looking at empty tables.

--

The research goes slowly at first. The town's newspaper hasn't been digitally archived too far back, and the death of Thomas Chillins didn't get much coverage in the larger newspapers nearby cities. With computer searches out of the question, Dean joined Sam in searching the microfiche archives on the first floor, the desks shoved back away from the fiction and children's collections in the east addition.

Which wasn't going that fast, either.

"You'd think with only a year to look through, we'd have found it by now."

"Too bad you didn't remember the _date_," Dean shoots back in response to Sam's comment.

Sam keeps zooming through old newspapers. "Feel free to take a drive over and check."

Rain pounds on the windows like boxers before a fight, glove against glove, ready to unleash hell. Wind gushes against the panes; it's a miracle they haven't shattered, but a building this old has to have some hidden strengths. Dean takes one glance outside and shakes his head.

"No way. Rather sit in here." But his eyes are glossy when he starts looking again, and Sam doubts his search will be any help.

Then again, Dean did spend four years hunting with their father, the master researcher, and if there was anything John Winchester did right, it was refining techniques.

Installing a bit of faith in his brother's ability to stay on task, even when faced with reading, Sam returned to his own screen and continued to look through the front pages of the town's newspaper for 1964.

A few governmental announcements, council member changes, and the new housing development out by the other town on the island marked most of the pages from January to April; there was little variation, and Sam was beginning to see that even though it may look different than their average small town, it had the same sort of news.

Nothing like a high society party to break the monotony. A photo of partygoers dressed in sleek evening gowns stood with men in tuxedoes, all of them smiling under a bright chandelier --

-- _light so bright it was blinding in its intensity. _

A headache erupts behind his eyes, causing him to blink a few times and stop the machine. Take a break. Reading never bothered him before, and for a fleeting moment he _hoped_ that was the reason his head started pounding, and not some new side-effect of his newfound abilities.

But he knew it was.

Every time he attempted to recall the vision from the graveyard, it was drown in bright while light so pure, it was hard to return to reality. How comfortable it was, where darkness was completely obliterated. How _safe_.

And each time, Sam struggled with returning to the dreary world outside.

"Bingo," Dean says beside him. He taps the screen with a finger, making that hollow click as he points to what he found. "I didn't find Thomas, but here's a William Chillins."

Finally, _something_.

"Says here he became the keeper of a lighthouse on the other side of the island, and lived in a house there with his family."

Sam rolls his chair over. "Thomas?"

"His son." Dean scans the article. The machine whirls as he rushes through a few months in the blink of an eye.

"Hey, stop," Sam orders. Dean takes his hand off the control. "Back a few."

"Yes, master."

Sam smirks. "Finally."

"Don't get used to it."

But Dean takes it in stride, and goes back until Sam tells him to stop. The headline reads 'Death at Sconset Lighthouse' and features a photo of the Chillins family; William and his wife, with a small boy no older than eleven standing between them sporting a haircut screaming of the 1960's.

"So that's Thomas," Sam says, and Dean nods. They both look at the picture of the family, of the young son dressed in khaki pants and a nice shirt; newsprints lacked color in those days, and whatever colors the family had dressed in were diverse but undistinguishable. Sandy hair, bright smile. A regular, happy family.

Sam's eyes linger on William -- the father -- for a second, his face so familiar. He leans back to his own terminal and it clicks into place. William's one of the men standing in a tuxedo at the society party.

"Okay. Blah blah, lighthouse keeper. Yadda yadda," -- Dean reads through it with his hands, waving his right hand whenever he skips over things he doesn't deem important -- "Ruth goes up to the top of the lighthouse, falls over the side. Thing is, there was no reason to go up there."

"Wait, what's the date?" Sam leans in. Dean points to the top of the article.

"Uh, April 14th, 1964. Why?"

Sam pushes his chair back to the other terminal, lingering on the faces of the happy partiers before scanning for the date. "That's the same date as this gathering?"

"And...?"

Sam points, finger smearing the screen. "That's William Chillins."

"So he's out at a party the same night his family croaks, huh? Nice guy."

Sam sighs. The parallels to their own life run right over Dean's head, and he decides to change the subject. "Still doesn't answer the question -- "

"Why would someone go to the top of a lighthouse in the middle of a storm?" Dean tries.

Sam sees that flash of light in his head again, and tries to refine it. "What if it went out?"

Dean shakes his head. "No one saw it go out. Just heard her scream. Yuck."

"What?"

"She fell into the ocean; they found her body days later eaten by...stuff."

"Stuff."

"Yeah. Whatever. Thomas Chillins, eleven. Went out to see what was going on, misjudged the distance to the cliff, and fell over. Never recovered his body." Dean leans back in his chair until only two legs are on the ground. "There ya go, Sammy. Lost body, lost ghost. End of story. Unless you'd like to wade through that water, though you might want to ask Ruth about the effects of doing that before diving in."

"God, Dean, you could be a grief councilor with the sensitivity you display," Sam deadpans. There's something about the photograph that haunts him; in the right light, he could say that was the figure he saw on the side of the road in the cemetery, but he can't be sure.

"Hey, you be touchy-feely, I'll shoot 'em, okay?" Dean laces his hands behind his head and gives the clock a glance. "So, what now, ghost whisperer?"

"You watch too much TV," Sam comments. "And I don't know. Why would Ruth go up onto the top of a lighthouse in the middle of a storm? There had to be something."

They can't print directly from the machine, so Dean copies down some of the more important information in that foreign handwriting of his. "Something down our alley?"

"I thought you said this was a waste of time," Sam quips, eyebrows raised. Dean leans forward with a slam that attracts the attention of another patron, and he gives them one of his prize-winning smiles. How women found that attractive, Sam didn't know -- to him, it was just creepy.

"I've been known to be wrong before," Dean proclaims. "Once. But hey, I'm big enough to give this one to you."

"Thanks."

"The internet's gotta have some history on this lighthouse. No more old books. The TV' has to be fixed by now."

Sam finds comfort in his brother's predictability, that he may once again know his brother as well as when they were scared kids blindly following their father across the country. A prickle in the back of the head mocks him through whispers of thought. _You'll never know him if you don't leave_. He almost considers it, almost reaches out to stop his brother and tell him he was wrong, that Dean was right, and they have no business trying to help lost ghosts.

Then he remembers the look on Thomas Chillins' face. Lost. Frightened. Confused. Sam knows what it's like to be a lost boy, to be rescued by Peter Pan and given a makeshift family, and can't help but wonder what Peter Pan gave up to rescue him.


	6. Chapter 5

Huge thanks to everyone who's reviewed. Each one warms my heart and makes me want to update faster. ;)

* * *

Chapter Five

They spend their time researching and laughing over old television shows playing at three am when neither can sleep but won't admit to it. Sam's nightmares seem to dissipate, interrupting his sleep less and less until one night, Dean can't remember a single instant of his brother's discomfort rising to a level that would normally wake him.

If he slept.

Being in the throws of nightmares or night terrors clouds memory, so Sam has never been able to keep a tally of how often Dean awakens at night, caught in between pressing circumstances and emotions he'd rather not show. Years of hunting taught him to be a light sleeper, listening for those things that went bump in the night, evil or drunk, stumbling around whatever room he called home.

Storms roll in and out; thunder and wind whirling outside keep Dean awake at night.

He covers it well during the day; Sam isn't used to being the protector, the one who notices these kinds of things, and only shoots varying side-glances in Dean's direction as they continue their research and take in the island's sights.

Sam visits the graveyard a few more times but doesn't find a thing. He lives in a world of disappointments and burrows in deeper each time he returns unsuccessful.

"We need to go to the beach," Dean finally suggests one afternoon. The clouds are thin overhead, making the day somewhat enjoyable, and the brothers are sitting on the outside patio of a restaurant in town for lunch.

Sam puts down his sandwich, something healthy for once, not dripping with grease. "I didn't exactly pack my bathing suit."

"I'm serious," Dean pushes. "Kick back, relax, take in the ocean."

"This is sounding more and more like some Zen field trip. I'm not a girl, Dean, I don't need to decompress."

"Hey, it's a _beach_."

Sam snorts, getting his brother's double meaning. "Right. Sorry, not really in the market."

Dean swats him on the arm. Leave it to his brother to find the most depressing thought about a relaxing day at the beach. He looks up at the sun trying to struggle through the clouds and wishes it were warmer. Just a few degrees, enough to shake this sense of mourning blanketing the island.

"We still don't know much about that lighthouse," Sam says, now picking at his food. "All the websites say the same thing. I'd like to go to the library, see if I can find something new."

"I suggest the beach, and you want to go to the library," Dean sighs. He shakes his head. "You're such a freak."

"Bitch." But he's smiling, and that's an improvement.

"I can't see how you eat this rabbit food," Dean finally complains, tossing his sandwich onto his plate with an air of finality. "There's gotta be someplace with real food around here."

"Shut up and eat your lunch," Sam orders, but his tone is lower, more authoritative. Dean throws a napkin at him, but complies. It's not everyday Sam impersonates his brother from their younger days, and he likes thinking about those times when a can of Spaghetti-O's and peanut butter and jelly were as special as four course meals for them.

Since then, Dean knew they could take care of themselves.

Instead of the library, Dean rolls down the windows and heads out onto the main road connecting both sides of the island. A soft breeze crosses the tall grass growing wild in the no man's land between the main town and the dead village on the other shore. He considers this spring cleaning; air circulates through the car and brushes out all those lingering scents of blood and dirt and sweat mingling together in the soft leather and replaces it with cleanliness. A new start, though they're still working through old issues.

Sam doesn't ask questions, just takes his place in the passenger seat and lets Dean pick the direction; there isn't far to go, but he's relived they haven't driven onto a ferry yet and bid the island ado. Dean's sense of loyalty is one of his strongest traits, and if Sam says there's something there, there has to be -- he'll stay at his side and investigate until Sam's satisfied and ready to leave.

In the three days they've been staying in town, neither have mentioned their aunt, nor how Alex might be doing. That ship's sailed, and both seem glad to be away from the influence of other people. They work better on their own.

After about twenty minutes, the car slows as Dean takes a turn onto a smaller, unpaved road and starts climbing a steady but subtle slope of green and brown. All that's visible is the blue-grey sky up ahead and the straight line where sky meets earth. There's a point of black in the distance that grows steady until the glass house holding the light becomes clear. Sam tenses in the passenger seat as Dean takes a slight turn and the tower comes into view.

From here, the entire island is spread out below them.

The car slows so the crunching of the gravel under the tires can be heard over the engine. Dean kills the engine, slides the key out of the ignition, and pushes open his door with that squeak of metal against metal -- a sound cars don't make anymore, with their plastic parts. He'd never dream of oiling it; the sound reminds him of trips to the store with his parents, when his mother would open the back door and lift him up out of the car.

Now it reminds him of his father, of the years they spent together, and how _nothing was really said_. He's no closer now than before to really knowing his father, but it doesn't bother him. Life's become the repetition of a pattern learned long ago, and following his father's part of that.

So has protecting Sam, though he can have a little fun with that one.

"Hey, you coming?" he asks, leaning over to shout through the open window. "You wanted to know more, well," -- he holds his arm out -- "here it is."

"I meant records," Sam says, extracting his lanky frame from the car.

"It's too nice to spend the day inside," Dean remarks. It's not easy being the outgoing one of the brothers, and if Sam can get him inside to research and read a few good books, he can drag his brother out once and awhile. "At least we're at a beach."

He points to where the hill drops off suddenly and the ocean's visible right past it.

"That's a cliff, Dean."

"So? It still counts, right? There's gotta be a beach around here somewhere." He finds it cooler here than back in town, and rubs his arm through rolled up sleeves as he wanders towards the cliff to look over the edge. Finding it, he smirks, and turns back around.

Sam's standing near the marker sign put up by the Coast Guard, craning his neck to look up the side of the tall white lighthouse. Dean crosses the grass separating them and stands next to his brother, following his gaze up to the top where the electric light sits whirling around, throwing beams of white into the yellow sunlight.

"That's tall."

Sam glances over at him, pulling his eyes from the building in front of them. "Were you dropped on your head as a child?"

"Whatever," Dean shrugs. There's a fence surrounding the lighthouse, a chain-link fence that's seen better days. Rust coats most of the metal, brought in by years of sea air, and it buckles when Dean takes a run and jumps up over it. He flips smoothly over onto the other side. A clatter behind him tells him Sam's followed suit, though he does mark the hesitation.

"Dude, check it out." There's a lone green swing set standing behind the lighthouse, one of the swings still attached though doesn't look like it'll hold any weight.

"It's a swing set."

"It's a creepy fucking swing set." Dean turns his back on the set and shivers for show. "You got your lock pick?"

"You seriously want to break into a light house in the middle of the afternoon?" Sam asks. "What if someone else pulls up?"

"No one's gonna come up here, Sam. It's a _light house_. Who visits a light house?"

Sam rolls his eyes. Dean's missed out on the more educational field trips in his life, skipping right past museums and national landmarks to see the seedy hotels of the world most kids don't see until they're in high school. He doesn't understand _why_ someone would come up here for _fun_ when the beaches were open and the weather was nice; there were so many more _exciting_ things to do.

Dean relents, seeing the logic in his brother's objection. "Fine," he grumbles. "But we are _so_ looking around. I didn't drive up here for the view."

--

Returning when it was dark wasn't appealing to Sam, but he knew what had to be done. Telling Dean he was getting weird feelings from the light house would only jump-start a tirade of jokes at his expense lasting through the day and perhaps, if his brother was feeling particularly devilish, the next day as well. While he respected Dean's coping mechanism -- God knew they both had them -- hearing a string of pop-culture references to psychic abilities became old. Fast.

They would also bring questions, questions he wasn't sure he could answer. Feelings didn't come with clear pictures or notes; putting sensations such as these into words was difficult enough without Dean firing questions at him before he even finished. No. These were best kept to himself until they learned more. Maybe learning the history surrounding this place would help clarify things.

Such as why he had no intention of going anywhere near that swing set, and almost felt the set had the same polarity as him, repelling him farther away the closer he got.

What had started with strange dreams and occasional sightings had grown into constant nightmares and actual sightings of...things. Mostly feelings, sensing places where spirits lingered, bad things had happened, places that went bad. Some days, it could be overwhelming.

"Hey, you've gotta come over here," Dean calls. He's back at the cliff, standing at the edge, looking down into the ocean below. If Sam's repelled by the swing set, Dean's attracted by the cliffs in the same manor he seems to find danger and engage it at every opportunity.

It's in the opposite direction of the swing set, so he joins his brother a few steps further back than Dean's standing.

"That's a big drop." Dean turns to look over his shoulder, then back down the cliff. "It'd be bad if you fell off the light house, but, man, totally worse if you fell from there, then fell off _here_." He winces. "Ouch. You don't recover from that."

"Here's the bigger question. How would you get from there," -- Sam motions to the grass at the base of the light house -- "to here, and then fall? Don't you think a fall from up there would kill someone?"

There's a breeze, and Dean hugs his arms. "Weirder things have happened."

"I doubt Ruth Chillins was a creature of the night."

"That kid, Thomas, he fell, right? What if she never went up there? What if he just thought his mom had gone up, came to find her, falls, and she's trying to save him."

Dean's theory rings so true, Sam can picture the same thing happening with himself filling Thomas' role, Dean chasing him and ultimately dying to save him.

"Sounds too normal for you."

"Yeah, well, tell me why the kid would wander out in the middle of a storm."

He doesn't have an answer. Just lets his eyes wander over the ocean where dark clouds are forming far out past where the sailboats will go. Beside him, Dean knocks on the chain-link fence.

"Guess there's a reason this is here."

"And yet we so easily jumped it."

His brother looks around, and Sam's relieved he takes some steps back from the edge. "Man, this place must be a _magnet_ for kids."

"Not all kids are attracted to haunted buildings or creepy areas, Dean. Just you."

"C'mon," Dean smirks. "Tell me you don't like this stuff."

He would, if they weren't standing so close to a cliff.

--

_Rain clouded his vision. _

_The wind howled so loud outside, he couldn't hear anything. Not the TV in the living room, or the horn he knows should be blaring every couple of seconds. Just the pounding of blood in his ears as he ran through the house looking for mom. She wasn't in the kitchen making dinner. Wasn't up in her bedroom. He even checked out in the garage even though only dad went out there. _

_His breath caught in his throat. Where is she? Why won't she answer when he calls out for her? _

_He raced around the house, searching everywhere. Flinging open cabinets, pulling things out of closets. She'll be angry with him when he finds her, but that's okay. At least she'll be _there_, not lost anymore. _

_A scream echoed through the house. _

"_Mommy!" he screamed, and pushed through the back door, racing through the yard, past his merry-go-round and swing set, crossing that line dad told him to never cross. He caught a glimpse of his mom's hair near the water, and ran faster. _

_His foot gets caught on something, and suddenly he's down, the rain so hard, the wind so loud, he can't hear or see anything. Just wants to find his mom. _

_He scrambled on the ground, trying to pull against what was keeping him back, and finally is able to lean over the edge. There, he found his mom. He screamed for her over and over again, the thing holding him back finally letting him go. _

_The inertia sent him hurdling over the edge. Falling. Falling. He fell through the blue water, still trying to see his mom. Lungs fill with air. Where was mommy? Isn't she supposed to save him? His arms and legs get heavy. He gasped, without air for so long, he can't help but try and breathe. Gasps and sputters and falls and shouted once more for his mom. _

_A ball of flames swept him through the water, up into the air -- _

Sam jolts awake with a start. The quest for a lost mother's all too familiar to him. His lungs burn and he coughs a few times before sucking in deep gulps of air, desperately reminding his body that it wasn't _him_ who was drowning, it wasn't _him_ searching through a foreign house for a mother he didn't know.

The desperation to find her was something he could only vaguely understand. As a child, he remembered running around sometimes, chasing after the tail end of his mother's nightgown as it disappeared around corners and through doors. But as he grew older and saw the raw pain in his father and brother's faces, he stopped. Pretended not to see anything anymore and kept his head down.

Even then, he'd never seen her face.

In this dream, which had him panting in the moist air, the child -- and at this point, he could assume it was Thomas -- _knew_ his mother. _Lost_ her. You can only lose something you knew, and Sam struggles to understand the full range of emotions thrust at him.

"Dude," comes a groggy voice from the darkness to his left. "We need to take you to a psychic doctor or something?"

Sam would groan if he weren't still struggling to breathe. "Why?" he manages to get out between deep breaths.

"'Cause." His brother's answer's simple, but speaks volumes. _Because you just started drowning in your sleep because of a _dream. "Thomas?"

"Yeah, I think so." Breathing's easier now that his lungs have discovered they're not underwater or under the control of a lost spirit. "He was...looking for his mom, couldn't find her."

"I figured," Dean says. The mattress squeaks and suddenly Dean's voice is much louder. "You kept shouting 'Mommy.'"

There a huge amount of gravity in that voice, enough to weigh them both down a little more than normal. The room shifts in a stripe of color as the lights from a car flicker through the window, gone as quickly as they appeared. In that single moment, Sam catches a glimpse of Dean's face; sharp and angular in the harsh misshapen light, wearing an expression he hasn't seen in years.

Like every expression covered in mothballs Dean drags up from time to time, it, too, disappears as quickly as the light.

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Not a problem," -- there's another squeak and a shifting of blankets as Dean gets comfortable again -- "just get back to sleep."

No jokes, no snide remarks. Just a kind suggestion, _get some sleep_. Sam's used to more, used to longer conversations on the wrong side of midnight, the kind that lull him back to sleep with their simple reassurance.

He lets the silence slide, finds a bit of comfort in the darkness, and falls onto his back. The ceiling here isn't the same as their used to; instead of cheap industrial tiling or yellowed paint, the sky above is pure white, a ceiling fan stuck in the middle. It turns, the blades catching whatever shadow they can as they whirl around, and if he tries hard, he can trace a single blade around for one revolution before being caught up in the bigger picture again.

Sam sighs and puts a hand behind his head.

"What?" Dean asks, his voice muffled by a layer of blankets.

"When I was a kid, did I..."

"Oh, God," his brother remarks. "Were you watching Oprah while I was getting ready this morning?"

"Weren't you the one that cited her once?"

Dean groans and turns over. "Okay. But we're never speaking of that again."

"I was just thinking. When I was a kid, did I, did I say I saw mom?"

Gravity returns. He feels as if he's going to sink through the mattress and box spring, past the floor, though the ground, to the center of the earth.

Dean clears his throat, buying time, Sam thinks, to think up a good cover. But his brother surprises him by sitting up, his feet thunking to that floor Sam's going to sink right through.

"Yeah. You did."

All that frustration and hurt radiating from Dean after visiting Lawrence -- the only real _home_ he'd ever have -- suddenly makes sense, and maybe the molten lava core of the earth isn't Sam's final destination.

She'd come for _him_, not Dean, not the son she'd seen grow up a little. The one she'd really known. Instead, she came for the one she knew would see her, listen to her even if her message carried no words, only emotions. She came to _Sam_, played with him when no one thought that possible, gave him a bit of normality when life was beginning to spiral into the realm he lives in now.

Logic would tell him it wasn't his fault, that he has no control over other people, especially spirits; he knows this from experience. Yet he finds a piece of him feels bad, feels _sorry_ for his brother, his normal-yet-abnormal brother who's only outstanding gift is his ability to survive.

And when they were younger, didn't Sam tease Dean about his unrelenting dedication to the hunt?

My, how the tables have turned.

"Dean, I'm so -- "

"Hey, don't. We don't need to have a talk about this shit, okay? We're not at a sleepover, I haven't painted your toenails, and we are defiantly not talking about all that girly stuff like relationships and feelings." Dean takes a moment. That one was waiting for awhile; Sam can tell when he's rehearsed his deflections. "But if you'd like, my toenails could use a little attention."

"Wow. Thanks for that visual."

"What can I say? I have a gift for language."

There's no reason to ask _do you think I really did_ because if visiting their house proved anything, it was the hard reality of Mary's spirit.

"Dean," he starts, unsure if he's gone back to sleep, or at least attempted to do so. "If Thomas was looking so hard for his mom, where was his dad during all this?" Because if there's one thing he _does_ understand with amazing clarity, it's the love and protection only a father can give.

--

"Damnit."

Dean looks up from his bed, tearing his eyes away from channel surfing for just a moment to eye his brother on the other bed, face hidden by the laptop screen. The TV settles on a station and soft jazz fills the room -- the trademark of the Weather Channel -- like a cheesy soundtrack to their lives.

"What?" he asks, arm still raised with the remote pointed at the television.

Sam blows off a bit of steam that ruffles his bangs. "William Chillins died four years ago." There's frustrated silence while Sam closes the laptop and tosses it a little roughly onto the bed beside him. "We can't talk to him, and I doubt anyone else is going to know where he was."

"People talk," Dean shrugs. "I mean, if I ditched my family and they died, I'm sure the townspeople would, you know, come to my door. Or at least look at me funny."

"They already look at you funny," Sam says. Dean gives a wide grin, but doesn't exactly forget how so alike to their own situation this whole thing's turning out to be.

"'Cause I'm a mystery. I'm mysterious."

"And what am I? An open book?"

"A lost puppy."

Sam tosses a pillow at Dean, who dodges to the left and lets it sail past him to hit the wall. He turns to look at his brother quizzically; a pillow?

"Whatever," Sam says in reply to the unvoiced question.

Dean shakes his head. "So, we've got a kid who's haunting you, which is kinda funny in that bad-horror-movie kind of way -- "

"Geeze, Dean, thanks."

"-- who died because his mom went out in the storm. We say, why go out? And her husband's nowhere around, which is pretty normal, except for there was this huge storm."

"Well, I checked that. The Coast Guard keeps records of all incidents. Seems this wasn't the first time something like this has happened up there."

This is good news, or at least news in the right direction. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Four times, over the past 150 years."

"That's not exactly a surprising number there, Sam."

"Get this," Sam continues. He's got the laptop open again, and crosses the gap between them to sit on the edge of Dean's bed. "First, in 1858. The light went out in a huge storm and the keeper was nowhere to be found. Then again in 1887, 1903, and last in 1965. The weird thing? The last three _swear_ the light went out, but no one noticed a thing. Coast Guard even checked the tower and switched out the light."

"And let me guess. Nothing was wrong with it," Dean deadpans.

"Exactly. And all four time, the keeper's nowhere around. No one knows where they were. All four died sometime after. Dean, I think there's something up there doing this."

It's a good line of reasoning. Dean looks over the information himself, skimming the Coast Guard records Sam found somehow.

"There aren't many people who live up there, though. Can't have that many witnesses who look at the light every night," he remarks offhand, trying to read between the black and white lines on the screen. There's something _there_, he just can't see it, which frustrates the hell out of him.

"True." Sam thinks for a second. "What about the storm?"

"Huh?"

Dean looks up when Sam doesn't answer, and sees he's watching the TV still playing the weather channel. The local forecast has come on; a huge blob of dark green with lighter green sprinkles is poised over Massachusetts with a threatening growl heard faintly outside.

"We better figure this out fast, because I have a feeling this storm has more to do with it than we think."


	7. Chapter 6

I want to thank you all for reading. If you've submitted a signed review, you should start getting responses from me either tonight or tomorrow.

Chapter Six

According to the news, the storm's set to hit landfall the next day at the latest, though many have already started preparations in case the power goes out when it hits. Not quite a hurricane or tropical storm, but people are treating it like the end of the world. High winds, hail possible, though how that can be with this humidity brings the validity of the report into question. Being on dry land in a storm is one thing, and the brothers quickly discover life on an island is something different.

Isolated. Which is not a choice feeling of Dean's.

He's starting to reconsider staying on the island a few days longer than expected; they should have left when the seas were calm and everyone wasn't running around like the sky was falling. The ferry's still running, and if he takes a right instead of a left, they can hightail it out of there and say good riddance to this whole thing.

But now _he's_ curious as to what's going on, which is dangerous.

So he takes the left, heads past the library, and stops when Sam tells him to in front of a nondescript brownstone nestled between high-end boutiques they'd never be able to shop in even on their best days.

Sam jumps out. He leans in through the open window. "Sure you don't want to come with?"

"Dude. White gloves? Not for me."

"Okay. Uh, give me a call if you find anything out," he says in one breath.

"Ditto."

Sam taps the top of the car and gives a tight smile before running up to the building and disappearing through the door into the building. Dean lingers for a moment -- how many times has he sat through _this_ scenario? -- sure Sam's safely inside before pulling off.

They've got a plan. Sam goes to the historical society to find out what happened in 1858 -- that's when this all started, so that's where they'll start -- and Dean heads off to the Whaling Museum to speak with the assistant curator, the local holder of all things nautical-related. He doesn't like taking the word of the inn's daytime clerk, but there's really no one else to ask. That he _wants_ to ask.

Lock _that_ in a box and put it in the back of his head for another time.

Going to a museum isn't that much better than visiting the historical society's records, but he figures a museum about whaling should have some killer tools on display -- knives, bone saws, things like that. Things that interest him to some degree, and wandering around giving them a look-over makes the trip a little more interesting.

He parks in the lot between two rented cars bearing large stickers on their bumpers advertising the rental companies and a local restaurant. There's a space on either side, which is how he _prefers_ to park, where he doesn't have to worry about overzealous soccer moms denting his car when swinging doors open a little too wide.

The museum's small. A large central room houses the main speaking area with rows of wooden chairs topped by a hanging whale skeleton. Behind it, a table holds an array of tools -- just what he was looking for -- encased in glass. Dean frowns; he wanted to be able to touch some of them. He settles for gawking.

"Interesting, aren't they?"

A normal person would be surprised, but Dean wasn't normal. He caught the reflection of the older man in the glass holding the weapons, and already has what he considers his most charming and innocent smile.

"Yeah. Those whalers, what kooks." At the man's falter, Dean quickly adds, "Creative, though. Innovative, really."

"Some of the tools pulled from old ships were actually made from the whales themselves. A bit cannibalistic if you think about it, but those sailors used what was available to them." The man looks over the tools softly, like someone would admire a piece of art or a child. "Martin Luewis."

"Just the man I wanted to see," Dean replies, taking Martin's hand. "I heard you're the go to guy when it comes to island history."

"You must have heard that from the locals," Martin says. If he's put-off by Dean withholding his name, he isn't letting onto it. "I think there's something romantic about having some sort of historian they can call their own. In reality, you could probably find everything on the internet these days."

"Well, I prefer to find things the old fashioned way."

Martin nods. "In that case, what can I help you with?"

There's a certain amount of finesse that comes with speaking to locals about the darker aspects of their hometowns. You can't come out straight with the questions you really want to ask like they do in the movies; answers aren't scripted. No one's accepting of a stranger wandering around no matter how nice they look.

This would be the perfect time for his nerdy brother to show up. "I, uh, I'm a huge fan of light houses and was, uh, thrilled to find the island had a few."

"Ah, yes." Martin motions towards one of the museum's side rooms that snake around the larger one like a cavern. "Did you know the light in the harbor was the second ever built in the United States?"

"Really?" Dean tries to sound interested. "Listen, I was kinda interested in Sconset Light. You know, its history and stuff."

Martin gives him a side-glance, but keeps walking through a room outlining the island's early years though today in a broad, long timeline that probably interested the more casual guests. They reach the end of the timeline and round the corner to end up in the entrance lobby, just behind the room with the giant whale skeleton.

"There are only two types of people interested in that lighthouse," Martin intones, sweeping past the lobby into a small hallway that looks more utilitarian than part of a museum. "True lighthouse hobbyists," -- he gives Dean a look that shatters the cover story -- "which you, my friend, aren't. And what I like to call conspiracy theorists."

They stop at the foot of a spiral staircase leading to the museum's more interesting second floor. It twists up into infinity around a large glass lens no longer used, thick, beveled glass surface almost smiling in the sunlight pouring in through windows behind it.

The conical tapering near the top reminds Dean of an ice cream cone.

"When keepers used lights like these," -- Martin motions to the lens -- "sure, lights could go out. They used oil lamps in those days, a bit more unpredictable than the electric spotlights used now."

How something like an oil lamp could project bright light almost equivalent to the electric lights could only be explained by the rings cut out around the center; the sunlight streaming in was magnified, giving the impression of a sunny day instead of the eve before a storm.

A giant eye watching their every move.

Dean turns his back to the lens -- honestly, it's starting to freak him out as much as Martin's side-glances -- and tries to give the impression that he's really listening.

"There's nothing wrong with that lighthouse," Martin says a bit strongly, like Dean's insulted his favorite food or preferences on cars. "The light runs off electricity now, not a lamp. Has its own generator if the power goes out. Believing the light went out was Ruth Chillins' mistake, not the lighthouses'."

While Dean may sometimes attribute problems with his car to the actual car and not poor maintenance and constant driving, he never spoke of it with such fever; Martin's eyes sparkled when he gave the lighthouse the ability to make or not make mistakes, as if the lighthouse itself could control the light it cast. If Martin made a move to pet the lens, Dean was out of there -- there was only so much crazy he could tolerate in one afternoon.

"What about her husband?" he asks quickly.

"Sometimes," Martin smiled widely, "a lighthouse doesn't need a keeper."

--

The historical society's archives were on the second floor, past a few small offices. For something so celebrated by the association, Sam found it small, yellow, and musty; research libraries back at Stanford were grand affairs, with high, artistic ceilings and room to spread out.

Here he feels cramped, constricted, and wonders why everything's compared to those years of normality instead of all those spent in libraries _before_.

Maybe because _normal_ people come here to research normal things -- no thoughts of haunted buildings and the ghost of a little boy haunting their dreams. No. To them, their research is a hobby, a quest, and at the end of the day, they close the book, put down the pen, and go to sleep. Sometimes, they may dream of their subject. Most of the time, they don't.

His entrance perks the attention of the solitary research librarian working the day shift when everyone else is at home getting ready to face the storm. She stands behind her only sign of authority, a pale beige counter, and smiles warmly at him.

"Can I help you?" she asks.

Sam smiles back in kind, and lays his hands flat on the counter. "I'm looking for records on Sconset Light between 1850 and 1860." He's done this so many times before, the words come like second nature before he even has a chance to charm her as Dean would.

But she doesn't need charming. Instead of revolting against the lack of pleasantries from his end, she nods and sits back down behind the counter and enters something into an unseen computer. It takes a moment; Sam lets his eyes wander over the book stacks he can see, filled with journals and manuscripts so old the pages have yellowed against the library's every precaution.

"Sure. It'll just take a moment. If you could..." She holds out those white gloves he's used to -- anti-static, clean, disinfected -- that keep skin oils off the pages. He's worn them only once before, when doing some side-research on a practice case for a senior-level class. When instinct took over and he found himself reading between the lines instead of on them, seeing dark deeds where others only saw guilt.

He found inconsistencies he'd seen before from the windows of a speeding car, through the eyes of an unhappy child. Things he'd vowed to forget, to get away from, to disconnect himself from.

When he re-found them, the dreams began again.

Lost in his thoughts, Sam doesn't hear the librarian approach with an armful of ledgers. Only when she puts them down on the desk and waves a piece of paper in front of his face does his snap back, and chides himself for letting down his guard for a moment.

"Just tell me when you're finished." The librarian walks off, rounds the edge of the counter, and disappears behind it.

Alone, Sam sits at the table and looks over the reference paper she handed him. It lists the different documents and excerpts that match the information he's looking for. Page numbers lead him through the stack of thin journals and records; he tosses a few aside after a quick skim, spends more time with others.

It's interesting work, at least to him, and he sucks up all the information he can as he goes from one book to another. A few are ledgers filled with articles from the paper at the time or official records. He picks through two personal journals -- Sam spends as little time with them as possible, uneasy with being a voyeur into the thoughts of the dead -- and ends up looking over an official report from the Coast Guard.

A small notebook dug out of his pocket collects notes in a hasty scrawl before he closes the book, takes off the gloves, and gives them back to the librarian.

"Thanks. I really appreciate it."

He's halfway out the door before the librarian reminds him of the usage fee for non-association members. He digs the cash out of his pocket, a messy crushed blob that would have never done six months or so ago, and gives a tight smile in apology.

The hallway outside gives him a moderate level of privacy, and that's the best he can do with the excitement bubbling inside him.

He dials his brother and doesn't even wait for Dean to say a word before launching into the conversation. "I found an old report from the Coast Guard. They investigated one of the first keepers on charges of neglect. Get this -- a ship crashed on the break waves the night of a huge storm because the light went out."

"Whoah, slow down," Dean's voice comes through like they're talking with cans and string instead of cell phones. "Give me a sec. Yeah, thanks." -- he shouts to someone else -- "Geeze, crazy comes in all sizes. Okay, Sam, keep going."

Sam takes a moment to ponder Dean's muttering, but keeps going. "They ended up removing him as keeper and had a new one appointed."

"For what? Skippin' out?"

"The ship crashed, half the men died, the other half were victims of red tide," he says as explanation. "According to his story, the keeper was in the fog bell house ringing the bell, hoping that would help the ship. There's no way he could see the light from in there. The investigator didn't believe him, though, which is why he was fired."

"So we have two cases of the keeper skipping out on the job and claming the light went out when they couldn't see it." There's a rumble from Dean's end; he's in the car and just started the engine.

"I think it did," Sam says. There's no reason for it, just a feeling, and the hallway's chilly for a moment. He pulls his sweatshirt tighter around his shoulders. "There's reference to a missing woman around the same time, but there's no evidence."

"Since when do we need evidence?" Dean replies. "I'm coming to get you. We should get a look out there before the storm hits."

"Why?"

"Orientation. Don't want to accidentally fall off that cliff, now do we?"

He should tell Dean this is all a crazy idea, that going out in a huge storm on a hunch no one else believes isn't the best way to go. But then he remembers this was all his idea, and that if they hadn't stopped, if he had just _closed his eyes_ after leaving Angela's, they'd be back in the Midwest by now.

Sam sighs. Sometimes, it's hard to tell his brother they're going about this without enough information. Other times, he's settled in to let Dean make his own mistakes.

--

"_Has anyone ever told you what a pick-me-up you are?" Dean smirks. "Seriously, Sam, you think too much." He grabs a shotgun and a flashlight, tosses a flashlight to Sam, and slams the trunk closed. _

"_Yeah," Sam comments, following his brother up the slight hill to the door of the lighthouse, "and sometimes you don't think enough." _

Angela Browning launches up in her chair, not remembering falling asleep in the golden-pink sun of dusk. The chair rocks forward a bit, and she throws a hand to her chest, heart beating fast under her palm. A light breeze tosses what hair has escaped her pony-tail; she focuses on the trees across from her house and notes a chill. Alex has gone inside, leaving her alone on the front porch.

Alone to dream and sleep and wake up in a cold sweat.

She hasn't seen something this vivid for awhile, but attributes that to their close connection; they're still on the island, were just here, and she can feel there will be trouble. Part of her wishes to go back to sleep to see more, to learn what she can, but Angela's wide awake now.

Alex peeks out the screen door, all smiles as he checks to see if she's still asleep, then frowns when he catches sight of his wife.

"Angela?" he says, stepping out onto the porch.

She takes a deep breath and turns to meet Alex's eyes. "Oh, Alex. The boys are in trouble."

"Did they call?" Alex asks. His concern's a bit forced -- Angela can tell these things from years of marriage -- but there's something there. Hope, perhaps, that they could all just _get along._

Angela shakes her head slowly enough for Alex to grasp what she means.

"No. No, that isn't true -- "

"How can you deny it?" Angela roars. "Robert wouldn't be alive if it wasn't true."

"That was just a lucky coincidence, and you know it."

"No, _you_ believe that. But I remember what happened. There _is_ such thing as psychic abilities -- "

"Angela!" Alex interrupts.

But Angela isn't going to take it this time. Isn't going to let him talk her out of believing what she dreams and sees and _feels_. The boys were only there for a few days, but she feels such a connection, such understanding there, she can't help but be worried.

"They're staying at Angelo's," she says from a far distance. "Please, please find them."

"This is insane."

Angela stands. "Humor me. No more talk about all this if they're there and safe."

"Fine." Alex knows a good deal when he hears one, and steps inside the screen door to fetch his keys. "But they're going to be there. Just you wait."

Angela nods, but knows they aren't Knows they're off somewhere else in the face of danger, and there's nothing she can do about it.

Yet.

--

Dean has the door unlocked by the time Sam catches up to him, and Dean has to wait for a second for his brother to catch up. The base of the tower's dark and grey with smudges of red where brick shows through age. A generator sits under the staircase as it spirals up, up, up 85 feet where it disappears in a steady wash of white.

"Great," he mutters, eyes twisting with the staircase.

"Don't tell me you're scared of heights, too," Sam quips from behind him. His beam intersects with Dean's to make a cross on the wall.

"I'm not scared of anything," Dean ascertains, but his eyes are wide and still looking up the staircase.

"What was that plane thing all about?"

"Healthy avoidance." Sam's all but pushing him towards the stairs, and he takes one last look up before focusing solely on his feet.

"And you're the one who wanted to come here not only tonight, but in the storm."

Don't concede. Just take each step one at a time, one foot in front of another, flashlight held in front of you. There's no railing -- the staircase is as old as the tower -- and he resists the urge to look over the side. Falling from heights of any kind, wither in a plane or off the side of a spiral staircase is something you can't shoot with a gun or avoid with a charm. He can't defeat it with something solid from the trunk of his car.

But if he were scared, Sammy would have been scared. Of the dark, of monsters, of guns or weapons. Fear, John Winchester said, clouds the emotions and causes mistakes.

So Dean doesn't show any fear, just tightens his grip on the flashlight with slick fingers and keeps climbing.

"Shit, this is a lot of steps," he huffs after five more minutes. Neither of them is out of shape, just impatient. The top should be closer, more accessible.

The ground is a dizzyingly far distance below; just leaning the small distance to check is a little too far, and Dean falls back against the wall. Closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"Are you seriously scared?" Sam asks from behind him. There's laughter in his voice Dean doesn't appreciate; he pushes off and continues up the stairs without a word. "I can go up myself; you can -- "

"I'm not a baby," Dean bites out.

"I'll catch you if you fall." Behind him, Sam holds out his hand like a gymnast's spotter, a grin plastered on his face. Dean throws him a growl and continues to climb; Sam's the one who needs a safety net, not Dean, and while he appreciates the gesture, it doesn't feel _right_.

He quickens his steps, striving to reach that brightness crowning them faster. For a moment, he thinks of all the ghosts and spirits he's encountered, all the books he's read on the topic, and feels reality slip away under his feet. The stairs are ferrying them towards the white light. Dean pushes the connotations from his mind, putting it back on the task at hand and not the symbolic meaning to their climb.

--

Sam knew there was something wrong with their plan, something off about going to a lighthouse and climbing to the top. When they reach it, and they do quickly, he's blinded for a second like he was in the graveyard a few days earlier, fumbling around it that giant whiteness that wraps around him like a warm blanket.

Something stumbles into him, knocking him into the glass housing the electric light. It's cold and unforgiving as it pushes him back; he fumbles for a moment before a hand grabs onto his arm pulling him back.

"Geeze, Sammy, _close your eyes_." Dean's voice is low and harsh in his ear, almost a growl, but he does as his brother says and closes his eyes. The hand pulls at him, up, out, around, until he can feel the cool breeze off the ocean play across his features.

Gingerly, he takes a peek.

They're standing on the platform running around the glass house facing out towards the roll of the hill as it makes its way down into the small village that once thrived but now sits as a pale imitation of itself. Cottages sit empty and lifeless, dots of black where lights should be among those who still live there, on those narrow streets, keeping immaculate gardens like beauty itself will bright people back. The ocean roars to his left, but he doesn't turn to see it. Just looks out and waits for his vision to return in blotches here and there.

"For a college graduate," Dean remarks from his side, "you sure are stupid. It's a _lighthouse_, Sam. There's a big light at the top that goes round and round?"

"And let me guess," still-half-blind Sam replies, looking vaguely in the direction he thinks Dean's standing. "You came prepared?"

Dean must be giving him a look that speaks volumes, but he just sees a blurry shape to his right.

Each time the light revolves, Sam feels the heat against his back, then the cooling effect of the ocean wind. He times it as his vision comes back, seven seconds, and after a minute he can see again.

When he can, he finds Dean sitting on the edge of the platform, feet sticking out through the bottom rung of the railing. He leans a bit, measures the room between the platform floor and the first rung with his arms, then crouches and does the same with the next two rungs.

He stands. "An average woman's, what, 5'3?" Dean leans over the edge, hands gripping the railing.

"Yeah, maybe taller."

"This is a four foot railing," Dean points out.

"That's too high for someone that short to lose their balance."

"Yeah."

If he scoots around the railing right, he can face the ocean, then look down on that solitary swing set and the remnants of a merry-go-round. Something catches at the edge of his vision, and as soon as he turns his head to see what it is, that's when things go fuzzy.

They clear again, but the railing's not as tall, and the light doesn't feel hot against his back anymore. Just a tingling of warmth creeping up the back of his legs every so often.

Then again, that's not what he's worried about.

He's facing the same direction, but that little village he felt sorry for before is large and thriving, a bright blimp on the map of the countryside he's looking at. The cliff, which should extend from his left doesn't. Instead, the hill reaches out towards the sea and slopes down into the beach that snakes past the houses and disappears behind them.

Light shoots out behind him, pale yellow and less intense like sunlight on an early spring afternoon. He silently prays in his head, _please no, let this all be a dream_, but he turns around and shields his eyes and there it is.

Eight oil lamps sit inside a massive Fresnel lens imported from France. Encased inside a room of glass sodered together with thick beads of lead, the glass lens constructed from numerous pieces rotates around the lamps inside, casting a beam of light fourteen miles far -- almost ten less than the modern light he'd expected to see.

Sharp slivers round each side of the lens, making it a huge rotating eye with several sides. The light-casting side comes towards him again, and Sam turns quickly to avoid being blinded again. A thick, powerful gust of wind comes in from the ocean, almost knocking him to his feet. Sam grabs the railing for support and waits for the light.

And waits.

The absence of the light clears his mind a bit, and he can feel the sting of ice cold rain on his face. It burns as it touches his skin, little pin pricks in his cheeks. In the distance, a fog horn blasts.

A shiver runs down his spine in response to the cold. "It went out," he mutters, able to look at the now dark and dormant light, a black hole sucking in all the ambient light it can find. Lost without illumination, Sam finds the darkness is wrapping itself around him. It's lonely and cold and nothing like the white blanket he's been pulling around him for the last week or so; it suffocates as it wraps his lanky frame, drowning him like the ocean, except here there's no water.

Just the haunting darkness.

--

Sam's back was to him, looking at something near the swing set, so Dean sets his eyes on the ground below, marveling at how small his car looks from so high up. A black ant shining in the moonlight -- though ant isn't the most romantic comparison he can make, but it'll do. He smirks; that high-gloss shine looks _damn_ fine from here, and that light it catches just validates all his hard work.

He turns to make a comment to Sam, but he's so far off in the Psychic Friends Network that Dean growls and decides to wait until he's sure he has his brother's complete attention to say something.

When he looks back to admire his car again, it's gone.

"Shit!" he swears. Creatures of the night have messed with his car way too many times, and Dean tears off down the stairs hoping to get there before anything can scratch his beloved paint job -- not to forget cut them off from any way to get back to town. The village isn't far -- maybe an hour or two walking, but there's not much there and any accommodations would surely take up the rest of their money.

The stairs feel endless. Dean tempts fate and takes a look over the edge to see how far he has to go, and the tower elongates, grows upwards, and he runs faster down the steps. The focal length shifts, it grows longer, he runs faster, and suddenly it's not about finding his car, just _getting to the bottom_.

Dean glances up, breath coming out in short, quick gasps. The top's just as far as the bottom; he has half a mind to run back up and retrieve Sam, but fears he'll never get there.

So he strives for the bottom.

His heart's beating fast now, the sound of blood pumping the only sound in his ears. It rushes like a drowning wind, white noise blocking out even the sounds of his feet pounding down on the ancient brick steps.

Running, running, just trying to get _out_.

Dean hates being out of control, hates not being able to see what he's up against, hates not knowing what can take it out, make it go away, leave him in peace. Flailing in the dark is something he's not particularly glad about, but he doesn't have long to get angry.

Then he's falling, falling in the dark, headlong into God know's what.


	8. Chapter 7

Finally! I've been trying to post this chapter since Satuday, at least, and kept getting errors. If you reviewed the last chapter, you should have recieved a responce from me, as well as a link to this chapter posted on my livejournal. I'm going to try to post another chapter sooner, as things are winding down here and I have a little more time.

If you'd prefer to read this story on livejournal, please, feel free to follow the link in my profile. I've posted a preview for my next fic there, as well...perhaps I'll give a little more; just a little gift for those who review. :)

Chapter Seven

Angelo Procci finishes checking the kitchen, making sure the inn has enough food to last if the power goes out or the roads flood during the storm, and heads back to the front desk. A few people straggle in, weaving here and there, and give him sheepish smiles while they giggle under their breath and climb the stairs to their room.

He shakes his head and sighs, going over the night's numbers. He's too old to be up this late, but giving most of his employees the night off means all the work comes down to him.

The books don't need much balancing, just a notation and the addition of the day's new lodgers. Angelo finishes quickly and shuts the book with a note of finality hanging in the air. Outside, the wind's already picking up, and it rattles against the inn's old windows, making them vibrate in their wooden frames.

"Hey, Angelo!"

Angelo jumps at the shouted greeting, his senses so focused on the windows trying to break free that he never heard anyone walk in.

It takes Angelo a moment to recognize the visitor; Alex Browning, husband of his friend from the historical society and female counter-namesake Angela. He walks with a purpose, strong, measured strides vibrating with annoyance and worry.

"Things all ready here?" he asks conversationally.

"Pretty much. Not like I've never seen a storm before."

"Not like this one. I've been watching the Weather Channel all day -- "

Angelo interrupts good-naturedly. "Shouldn't you have been working?"

"You think we could do anything in this weather?" Alex remarks. "Hell, we've got tarps covering half the frames and I _know_ I'll be tearing out warped wood all month."

Angelo sighs. Numerous conversations with Angela over a shared lunch come back to him; Alex's never been subtle or soft -- he's all rough edges and harsh drop-offs. There must be something more to him, but Angelo can't seem to ever find it.

"Sorry 'bout that." Angelo says. "So, the Weather Channel?"

Alex leans up against the counter, spying a look over it to see what's behind. "Yeah, the Weather Channel's reporting gail-force winds, possible flooding."

"Flooding?" Angelo echoes. He doesn't like the idea of flooding; as an island-dweller, he knows low elevations can spell catastrophe for houses and buildings, and while he's sure his inn's on a hill, he can't help but worry about its future.

"Don't worry. Waters never come up this high." Alex looks around the inn, eyes lingering on the rattling windows, then the staircase. "Everyone accounted for?"

"Think so," Angelo replies. The group that just walked in makes for twenty four. "Haven't seen 3B or 6A, but..." He trails off, shrugging as if to say _what can I do?_

"There happen to be a pair of boys here, in their twenties?" Alex asks.

It takes a moment for Angelo to remember, and when he has a hard time, he consults the ledger he just finished updating. "Only pair we have is 6A."

There's something that flashes through Alex's eyes that gives Angelo that glimpse beneath the surface he's been searching for all these years. Ever since meeting Angela, he's become overprotective of her happiness, and three months after seeing her on a weekly basis confronted her about her marriage.

Angela told him he didn't know the whole story, and left it at that.

"You know them?" Angelo tries.

Alex swallows and nods. "Angela's nephews. She's worried about them; they didn't leave on the best of terms."

"Ah. I'm sorry, Alex. Haven't seen them all day. One asked about the light out at Sconset before, but that's all I've heard from them. Very quiet. Keep to themselves."

"That's them." Alex takes a breath, deep and introspective, and pushes off the counter. "Never thought I'd get worried over them, but damn if I'm not regretting some of the things I said."

3B wanders through the door, a little windblown, but in one piece; a lonely guy off on a solitary vacation after being dumped the week before. He gives Angelo a weak wave and shrugs in his jacket, the thin material plastered to his skin. It dislodges, and he trudges out of sight down the little hallway to the rooms on the first floor.

"Looks like its getting worse out there," Alex comments. He pulls his jacket tighter around his frame. "Better get home."

Alex leaves Angelo alone in his lobby. The innkeeper gives the clock one last glance before turning off the desk lamp and overhead lights. While he walks through the back door to his small apartment, he worries a bit about Alex. There's uncertainty there, at learning something new about someone you had pegged differently.

Something tells him no one in their right mind would be out this late, with this weather looming. He feels a sense of obligation towards his still-missing guests, but his tired, old body is no match for such late hours, and he disappears into his own quarters without a second thought.

--

The world is spinning.

It takes a moment to calm down, but when it does, the spinning is replaced by a whirlwind of high-pitched whistling and gusts that catch on everything. Color whips around and clouds what little can be seen, a dull tawny green that seems so _familiar_.

Sam Winchester's mind comes into full consciousness with a painful jolt, literally. His head bangs against the railing, waking up a bruise already into forming on the back of his skull, and he winces as pain radiates through his brain.

When it passes, and it does, leaving a ghost of pain that feels like nothing more than a normal headache, he's finally able to take stock of his surroundings. At the sight of the modern, bright light, he sighs with content -- back to the present. The connotations of being happy over _that_ can wait until later, when he's not being tossed around by the wind at the top of a lighthouse.

Instead of standing near the eastern face of the lighthouse, Sam's on the ground, long legs bent in front of him, back flat against the safety railing. When he gathers himself and stands, the world starts spinning around him again like he's had one too many of some cheap beer Dean's handed him at some hole in the wall.

_Dean_.

He can't look too far without burning his vision out again, so Sam walks around the glass house in the center, glad his legs are working. After two revolutions, he _knows_ his brother's no longer at the top with him, and, with his eyes closed, he gropes around the light room to find the entrance to the tower.

The staircase spirals down into a dark well absent of light despite the spillover running over the highest steps. Sam uses this to guide his feet for a little bit, then pulls his flashlight out of his pocket and flicks it on.

"Hey, Dean!" he shouts. His voice echoes and bounces back to him, and he can't help but notice how _angry_ it sounds.

Then again, why _shouldn't_ he be angry? One minute, he's looking over at something near the swing set, his brother still checking heights and the basics on a person's center of gravity, the next, he's gone and Sam's on the ground.

But not on the ground.

The vision -- that's what he's calling it to keep panic from swelling in his chest -- was so _real_; he could have sworn he was standing there, in the past.

"That's impossible," he mutters to himself.

How could he be there, _really_ be there? It had to be a vision, a very real, very frightening vision that, for once, didn't involve someone's death.

_Or maybe I just woke up before that part._

The timing was unmistakable. The light was old, something he assumed from Dean's re-telling of his interesting albeit creepy visit to the museum. His details on the museum's holdings that might become important was precise, a habit both brothers picked up after years of probing questions from their father; _remember the details, or your recon's worthless_. They were enough for Sam to take one look, to see the oil lamps flicker and die in that terrible storm, to know -- _know_ -- he was standing on the lighthouse the night of the boat accident.

And perhaps the death of a woman. The report referenced the possibility of a woman's death at the tower, but the occurrence of a large fire engulfing the town only days before made it next to impossible to discern exactly where and when she died.

If she died at all. All that was filed was an informal missing person's report put forth by a concerned friend.

Sam clamors down more steps, the hollow echo reinforcing what he feels in his heart -- they walked into this one not only blind but deaf, resorting to half-assed theories and groping around in the dark.

The dark, which is becoming more familiar than the light.

Then there were the visions, the dreams, the sad, tear-streaked face of lost Thomas Chillins staring back at him the night they left their family and retreated through a graveyard.

The beam of his flashlight arcs wide despite his strict control on where it shines; no one wants to fall down a flight of 150 year old brick steps. He's halfway down, the point where he can still see a faint light up above and the shadows it casts on the ground below.

After his last experience, Sam's a bit apprehensive about giving something seen out of the corner of his eye his full attention, but more information would be welcome at this moment. Hand on the curved wall of the tower for balance, Sam peeks his head over the edge of the stairs and shines his flashlight at the bottom. The light reflects off the marred metal of the generator, then passes the door to the bottom of the stairs.

At first, he thinks he's seeing another ghost. But after a moment, when the tingle on the back of his neck isn't one of fright or surprise, but _fear_, he lets out a strangled cry and takes the rest of the steps as fast as he can without falling over. Sam's legs are long; they safely cross two steps and allow him to leap the last four.

The blood pounding in his ears makes his headache grow into something fierce, but he ignores it as best he can.

Because the thing at the bottom of the stairs isn't a ghost.

It's his brother.

He shouts 'Dean' before he even reaches him; it comes out muted and muddled because his breath's coming out in spastic gasps he can see puff out in the chilly air. A light drizzle being thrown against the glass house up top mingles with his pulse beating through his ears making it impossible for him to hear anything else, even his own thoughts.

So he doesn't think, just shakes his brother's shoulder and smiles inwardly when the shoulder he's shaking pushes back reflexively.

"What the hell are you doing down here?" is the first thing out of Sam's mouth. Not for lack of emotion -- hell, his brother's at the bottom of a staircase looking the loser of a nasty bar fight.

"Man," Dean slurs, trying to sit up. Sam moves to help him, but the always independent Dean recoils from the help and uses the wall for assistance instead. "What the hell is going on?"

"Why don't you start with why you left me up there _on the ground by myself._"

Dean's confused. His forehead rises and his eyes try to squish together. "Huh? You were looking at something and I noticed -- "

There's a flurry of activity as Dean tries to get up, his eyes wide and worried and a bit angry at the edges where hazel gives way to dark green. He pushes off the wall and sways a bit before taking a step forward. His face twists, eyes close for a second, and returns his hand to the wall.

"What?" Sam asks, on his feet. Dean uses the wall much like an inexperienced ice skater at an ice rink; his hand stays firmly on the wall and he moves slowly enough to catch unwanted attention.

"The car!"

Now it's Sam's turn to be confused. "The car?"

"I was looking around. One second, it's there, the next, _gone_. Shit clued me into something weird starting. I swear to God, if someone took it, I will pound their ass into the _ground_."

Before Dean can reach the doorknob, Sam's got the door open. Wind pounds against it, stronger than before, but the door opens to the left and gives them a bit of shelter. He looks around himself -- the car should be parked a few feet from the fence on the other side -- and scoots out farther to see if it, and he doesn't want to think about _how_, has moved.

When he moves back inside the shelter of the door, he can feel Dean standing just over his shoulder and pictures his brother on his tip-toes to see over Sam's shoulder. He smiles -- his height is something Dean's never forgiven him for -- but the momentary elation he feels is cut short when he glances over his shoulder and sees that Dean's not standing on his tip-toes. Instead, he's half leaning against the wall, half against Sam's shoulder.

Dean gives him a sheepish, pinched smirk. "I'm not feeling too well. Might want to move out of the way."

Not wanting to get anything on his shoes, Sam scoots to the left side of the doorway just enough to give Dean a good amount of space. Dean leans over and starts to throw up -- the sound alone makes Sam wince, and he focuses on the wind instead --- but his hand slips from the wall and he starts to tumble forward.

Sam hooks and arm around Dean's waist, pinching his eyes closed as hard as he can. His viewpoint isn't the best, now, and he can barely focus on something else as Dean's stomach heaves under his arm.

He finishes and not a moment too soon. "Man, that's gross."

"Thanks, Sam," Dean mumbles. He's still leaning forward, almost all his weight resting on Sam's arm; he doesn't make a move to stand on his own, just hangs there, drizzle falling into his hair, flattening it against his skull.

It's obvious Dean's not pulling himself back into the tower, so Sam wraps his other arm around his waist and pulls him back inside. Wind howls over the opening of the door like a kid blowing over the top of a bottle, and it echoes up through the brick tower before the wind takes over and slams the door shut.

The bang swirls through the tower with a note of closterphobia. With the car apparently missing and a storm growing outside, there's nowhere to go. Even with the drizzle outside, Dean doesn't seem well enough to try the two mile walk to the village below.

Dean comes out of whatever stupor he was in as soon as the door slams, and he pushes off his brother's help. "I took a header down a flight of stairs, Sam. I'm not a baby."

"Fine," Sam grumbles. He lets go, arms retracting from around Dean's waist. Dean pits forward, catching himself on the generator, and falls down the length of the quiet machine with a groan. "Sure, Dean, you're _fine_."

"Yeah." But it's one of those unmistakable situations where Dean's trying to not let on exactly what he's feeling for the sake of those around him; his teeth are clenched, muscles tight, face pale in Sam's flashlight beam.

Sam sits down next to Dean and starts probing his body with his flashlight, wincing himself when the beam reflects off the generator and reminds him of his headache. It sits just behind his eyes, threatening to send all kinds of odd shapes into his vision unless he calms down and gives himself a moment to collect himself.

"Sure you're okay?" Dean asks. Sam looks up to find his brother's eyes almost boring through him and wonders why he's just noticing now. Wasn't the point in having psychic abilities being able to know about things without directly seeing them?

"Yeah. Just a headache."

"What happened after I left?" Dean continues. There's something in his tone that causes Sam to stop what he's doing and sit back on his heels.

"I had a vision," Sam replies. "It was so _real_, Dean. I could have sworn I was really standing there."

"Where?" his brother probes, sounding so much like their father.

"Up there," Sam says, motioning to the top of the tower with his flashlight, "the night the ship crashed."

"And that woman died."

"We're not even sure she died here -- "

"It makes sense," Dean sighs. His eyes slip half-closed, and what Sam can see of them are unfocused. "Ruth dies 'cause she thinks its out, two people before that. Why is it so hard to believe," -- Dean yawns -- "it all started that night?"

Despite the pain pushing against his eyes, Sam hastens his search. The most obvious injury his brother could have from his fall -- and he's pretty sure that's what happened, though the _why_ puzzles Sam -- is a concussion. But the stairs are unforgiving, just like the railing he fell against, and he's seen Dean with concussions before.

"Are you going to stop trying to be a tough guy and tell me where you hurt?" he hisses in frustration.

"Too bad you weren't pre-med," Dean mutters.

"Yeah, well, if I knew you'd be so difficult, I might have changed my major." He resorts to poking and prodding like a doctor, checking Dean's arms and torso as best he can in what light he has. If there weren't so many stairs, he might have dragged Dean up a few feet for better lighting,

Then he pokes somewhere that makes Dean groan. "God _damnit_, Sammy!"

Sam shines the flashlight on Dean's left leg and feels that swell of pain in his head when his pulse quickens. Through the darkening material of Dean's worn jeans Sam can see blood spreading over a sliver of white skin. He grimaces and looks up at Dean with those worried, dark eyes he gets when he has to do something he'd rather not.

"I'm going to have to rip your jeans," he says. "This might hurt." Because he has no idea how long Dean had been at the bottom of those stairs, no idea how long he'd had that vision of the past. So he grits his teeth, balances his flashlight under his arm, and rips the jeans open where the blood's pooled.

Dean lets out a sharp yell that sounds a hundred times worse in the enclosed space; it had to be at least a half-hour, from the way the material had stuck to the skin. Sam's face pinches at the sight of the raw skin around a slight -- Sam closes his eyes and swears at whoever's listening above -- protruding bone.

"Fuck, Dean," Sam remarks in a rare usage of swearing. But when he glances up at his brother's face, he finds nothing but pain written across sleeping features.

Medical training only extended so far in the Winchester family. Despite their best efforts, broken bones and deep cuts couldn't be treated with materials from their shaving kit filled with supplies. But the side-effects _could_; pain-killers and gauze could alleviate pain and slow the bleeding. With the car missing -- and how _that_ happened was beyond Sam -- he didn't have anything. Nothing to make Dean feel better, nothing to treat his broken bone.

First things first. His headache is pounding harder with each passing second, the wind swirling around the tower not helping. What he needs is peace and quiet and maybe four years of sleep, not a hard cement floor, a storm growing outside, and an unresponsive older brother.

The way his head hurts, how it's making everything swim around him, clues him in that he might have a slight concussion -- nothing too bad, but enough to make his movements sluggish.

He leaves his brother for only a minute, wandering off outside with his flashlight at hand, searching as far as the beam will reach for the car or anything that might help him patch Dean up enough to get them to safety. Above, the light of the lighthouse illuminates the island, giving a bit of assistance. But the rain's falling at a slant a little harder than before, and Sam has to wipe his eyes every couple of seconds in order to see.

The only tire tracks he sees are those they made when coming in; Dean always likes to give a little flare to his driving, and the curve at the end in unmistakably his. One set, none in reverse. Just _gone_.

Another sweep around the lighthouse, then Sam jumps back over the fence. Each time the light swings to the northeast, it glances the swing set. Dark, light. No color, just the presence of something metal standing out in the distance. Even Sam has to admit it's somewhat creepy. It's still repelling him for some reason, and for that reason he shines his flashlight directly on it and marches forward.

With each step, his headache grows. One foot after another until he's walking across the open field with robotic steps, knees straight, head bowed, brow furrowed. The flashlight in his hand wavers, a few inches at first, then shakes violently. His head's threatening to rip itself apart.

Air explodes from his lungs with a strangled cry, and he falls to one knee fifty feet from the swing set. The flashlight tumbles from his hand, rolls across the grass, and disappears over the edge of the cliff.

Sam half-stands, half-crouches in the field. The light swings around, sweeps the cliff, and continues on its way.


	9. Chapter 8

Here it is, chapter eight. I'll be replying to reviews and such today as well. ;)

Chapter Eight

He wakes up haphazardly, that is, like a baby gazelle trying to find its legs on a slight incline. All legs and limbs tumbling out of control until the hill ends, the sky swings into view, and you just realized you fell down a hill.

In Dean's case, he remembers he tumbled down a flight of stairs he should have had no problem descending and ended up with more than a few scrapes and bruises. His left leg's its own inferno fighting off the chill permeating the impassive stone walls, though not very well because his arms are covered in goose bumps.

Blinking a few times clears his vision. It's nothing but dull grey dotted with a few splotches of white. That's it. Nothing vaguely Sam-shaped is anywhere about, and he can _swear_ he spoke to Sam not too long ago.

Everything's a bit fuzzy, so that may not be true. It's a little hard to remember anything, really, past discovering the car -- oh, _man_, his car! -- was no longer where he parked it.

Which wasn't entirely surprising, what with all the strange things the car had witnessed; here he implored the existence of some kind of personality to the car, even if most saw it as a melding of metal and leather seats. Hauntings, ghosts, bits of zombies -- half of what he's seen, the car's seen, and it wouldn't be too out there to believe something got into it.

But past that, and it does take his mind a little bit to process things, he remembers trying to get down the stairs, and then --

Alone.

"This is bullshit!" he shouts. His own words come back to him, snidely affirming that he's all alone in the lighthouse.

_Sam left you all alone_.

The voice is unmistakably his, yet not; he'd never say anything like that, but he'd think it. But there's malice hidden under the words, malice Dean himself doesn't feel.

Or does he?

Thoughts are getting twisted up in his head, and he shakes it to clear the preverbal cobwebs mucking up the works. Whatever's going on, he's sure there's an explanation for it --

_You're all alone, but safe here_.

He growls and lashes out as best he can even though he can't see his hand that far out. It's more a reflexive move because he _knows_ that voice isn't his even though it bounces around inside his head and copies his distinct way of saying things with the appropriate amount of sarcasm.

Images start to clear in his head. Waking up. Seeing Sam. Something about leaving him at the top of the tower without warning, about him seeing something -- another one of his damned visions and deductive reasoning he wouldn't be able to reproduce until he figured out what the hell was speaking with his voice.

In his head.

Of all the things to invade, someone's mind was the worse. Invasive, personal, and just plain _wrong_, Dean had always been wholly opposed to dealing with any type of creature or spirit that may have the ability to do so and usually found himself arguing with his father over the merits of _courage_.

What did courage have to do with it? Deep dark secrets were secured for a reason, and he didn't have to explain himself to anyone, least of all his family. Weren't they supposed to be the ones who respected such boundaries without question?

Dean shifts his legs and groans -- long, meandering, deep groan that could develop into something else if he doesn't keep it in check. His foot's fallen asleep, and judging by the moisture on his leg and the tickling of air over his calf, things are progressing into seriously bad territory. He kicks out with his right leg; sitting in one position for too long has never been a strong point for him, and with something in there with him, he's getting antsy.

Where the _hell_ is Sam?

Leave it to the psychic to ditch the party when his talents could actually be useful. Dean places his palms flat on the ground and tries to scoot farther down the wall towards the generator, hoping someone's left some tools or at least a flashlight in their haste to finish a job and get out of there. It's slow work; he only can move a few inches at a time before flopping back to the ground panting from the effort. A little break, then he pushes up again and scoots more.

A sickeningly innocent laugh knocks into him a few feet from the generator. His palms slip on the cement, rocks and dirt slicing into them as he falls back against the wall. His hands at least keep his attention off his leg for a moment, just enough time for him to feel a tickling in his left -- and still asleep -- foot before the burning in his hands transfers back to his leg.

"Yeah. Alone. Right," he mutters to himself. "If I were alone, I wouldn't have someone fucking around in my head."

Because he can _feel_ it. It invades those dark blanketed parts of his mind even he's forgotten about, pries open locked doors with violent, painful thrusts of shoulders or feet or _claws_. It goes past the little white lies, the secret embarrassments, the mistakes he cringes at whenever they float in past the unconscious.

_Don't worry_, it says, this time mocking him with a voice he hasn't heard in years -- hell, didn't even know he _remembered_ the inflections and light, sugary tones, _I won't leave you like they did_.

Dean doesn't care who the hell it is. He pushes up with newfound strength and scoots as far as he can before the effort saps all his energy and he collapses against the wall. He's so close, yet so far.

He growls and tries again. And again. Until his palms are bloody and raw and his leg's no longer something he can push to the back of his mind.

Because the sooner he finds some light, the sooner he gets the hell out of there, the sooner he can forget about someone lying to him in his mother's voice.

--

These headaches are getting a little annoying.

Sam should be thinking _clearly_, not struggling to stand up and align his vision to avoid tripping over something or topple over the edge of a cliff. Becoming confused or disoriented in dingy hotel rooms or the passenger seat of the car while flying past nameless towns was acceptable. Then, he could let them try to tell him something, hell, could give him clues that didn't make any sense.

But not _now_, not during a hunt.

The upside, though, and he struggles a bit to find it out in the field, is that non-corporeal entities are becoming easier and easier to see.

Their feet don't exactly touch the ground, one of the more haunting aspects of being able to see them instead of just feel their energy. Blades of grass strive to touch the bottom of Ruth Chillins' feet, but end up feebly praising her like sun worshipers on a cloudy day.

Like Sam's, her hair's plastered to her head by the rain, and while the wind and rain aren't howling as loudly as they were the night of her death, he can see the wind from her time ripping at her t-shirt, a plain, V-neck in red dangling over a ripped pair of jeans. Auburn hair swims around her face, tangled in the wind. A hand grips the edge of the swing set, knuckles white from the intensity of her hold, as if she'll float away if she releases even a finger.

_Just pretend she's alive_, Sam reassures himself. His talents for speaking with the living have to extend to the dead, or else why does he have this budding gift?

In order to bridge the gap between the dead and the living, Sam takes a step forward. His headache's loosened its death grip on his head a bit, so he feels fairly confidant that a few more feet won't do any more harm.

Boy, is he wrong.

The shock's strong enough to send him reeling to the ground flat on his ass, the wet grass soaking through his jeans. He's stunned, but that's the extent of his injury, which gives cause to the opposite polarity he's been feeling ever since their first day on the Cliffside.

"Don't come near," Ruth says. Her voice is a mish-mosh of female voices he can recall in his memory -- a little bit here and there all those girls he met at school -- so he blocks out Jess's voice as best he can.

There's a moment for oratory greatness, but this isn't one. "What's going on?"

"You have to leave," Ruth's mixed voice says. It's like a mosaic painting -- vowels drop here and there, an accent is emphasized on one syllable but not the other -- to make a composite sound. "You have to leave _now_."

"Why?"

When Sam was younger, his father admonished him for asking too many questions when action was required. He should be heeding the spirit's warning, should be rushing back to the lighthouse, grabbing his brother, and getting the hell out of there. But a part of his mind, the part that bubbled to the surface back at Angela's, keeps him rooted to the spot, hands splayed out behind him.

"You're not safe. He's never safe."

"Who's never safe? Thomas?" Sam demands. "Thomas is the reason we came here."

"I know. He'll never be safe. You'll never be safe. Can't you see?"

Ruth turns her head towards the cliffs, and that's what Sam thinks she's alluding to. After forty years, the cliff is closer, more perilous, a chopped drop created by some huge knife descending on the island. If he can't take a step towards Ruth, he can move in the direction of the cliffs, and gathers himself up to do just that.

"The cliff. Thomas fell over in the storm." He sighs and looks over to Ruth. "You fell over in the storm."

The wind howls up the cliff and slashes across the front of his body. His hair flies from his forehead and he can finally _see_. The gust pushes him back a bit, and when he glances in Ruth's direction, she's no longer there.

"_She_ fell over in the storm," an icy voice whispers in his ear. Sam tries to wince away from the ice dripping on his shoulder, but feels Ruth's grip on his arm -- a tight, vice grip without the padding of flesh on her bones. Eyes wide, he looks down to see just that -- a pearl white hand gripping his arm.

It burns like ice, radiating out from her palm, and he pulls and pushes but her lips -- no, her _skull_ -- remains tight to his cheek. "You have to leave. He will take you like he took me. Like _she_ took me."

Sam's breathing's fast and hitches when Ruth's other hand comes across to caress his cheek. It pulls against his face hard enough to give him a feeling of whiplash in his neck and forces him to look out across the ocean.

His brain stops and he holds his breath. "There's a ship," he manages to get out.

Bobbing in the distance is the outline of a ship struggling over the waves, lights flickering in and out as it disappears and reappears beyond the squall.

A boney finger points out at it. "_He_ took him." Sam's whirled around to look up at the dark lighthouse. "_She_ took him."

The lighthouse. The light above is dark, a blind eye circling with no purpose. The lights from the ship blink in and out behind them, casting Sam's shadow on the side of the tower. He's a giant towering above everything.

A giant, solitary shadow.

Ruth's gone.

--

Sam manages to find a few discarded sticks and pieces of newspaper in the field, and gathers them up in his arms after a few more minutes of fruitless searching. He feels the light of the ship grazing his back, not the heat of physical light, but the pulsating brushes of spirit energy. Whoever's on that ship has been there a long time, calling out as best they can for some attention.

Sam almost feels bad turning his back on them, and ignores the clawing at the back of his sweatshirt as he rounds the lighthouse and pushes through the heavy metal door.

A bright light flashes in his face, and he has to thrust a hand in front of his eyes in order to see anything; all this bright light has him wondering if there'll be permanent damage after this trip's over. He squints and takes a few steps, almost jumping when the door slams behind him.

"Sam?"

The light wavers. Sam blinks a few times. "Dean? Where'd you find that?"

"Where'd I find it? How 'bout where the hell have you been?"

There's anger there, and hurt, and Sam realizes how it must have looked to Dean, waking up all alone, injured, unable to really _do_ anything but sit there and think.

As explanation, Sam dumps the collected materials on the floor a few inches from Dean's outstretched feet. He notes the scrapes through the layer of dirt settled on the ground and follows the arch of the line around to the right. "I was looking for the car..." he says slowly, his mind putting things together. "Did you move all the way over there?"

His eyes return to Dean; the blood mixed with dirt makes his stomach queasy so he searches for something else to look at.

"Hell, yeah. You left me _alone_ in the _dark_, Sam. What was I supposed to do? Twiddle my thumbs?"

"Since when are you afraid of the dark?" Sam decides to quip. Humor always works with Dean; he latches onto deflections like a frightened child grabbing a parent's leg. It's a casual remark, made as Sam starts sorting through what he's collected, separating out two of the larger sticks in hope they're strong enough to act as a brace.

"There's a fucking ghost in here, man," Dean spits.

This catches Sam off-guard halfway through building a pitiable fire. He drops the last piece of wet paper onto the small pile and looks around the room. Usually, he can sense these things -- the feeling of Ruth's presence is still fresh in his mind -- but right then, he feels nothing but the chill of wind that slips in from above.

One thing he's _not_ going to do is tell Dean there isn't anyone in there besides them.

"Casper lives in a lighthouse?" Sam gives up on the fire -- nothing's going to burn until it dries out a bit -- and takes off his sweatshirt and over shirt before settling next to Dean's injured leg. "I though he preferred large mansions with cute girls."

Dean grunts. "Whatever," he says with a wave of his hand.

When Sam sees his palm, he grabs it mid-air and pulls it forward a bit too harshly, but then again, this is Dean he's dealing with, and anything short of a hard grip results in your hand being swatted away. Dean's palm looks like it lost a competition with a meat grinder; some of the deeper cuts are still oozing blood while the rest of his palm's just sticky with bits of dirt making the red more intense.

"Let me see your other hand."

"What are you, my nursemaid? Cause honestly, you're cute, but not _that_ cute."

"You wish," Sam remarks, plucking Dean's other hand from his side.

"Yeah," Dean smirks. "I really do."

A slap on the shoulder's all Dean gets since Sam's not too keen on getting into a long debate over the pros and cons of good-looking hospital staffers. He gathers up his shirt, gives Dean's palms one last lingering look, and heads for the door.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"Listen, Dean, you're bleeding all over. I've got to get some water to wash out your leg." He pauses, running a shaky hand through his hair. "I'm going to have to straighten your leg, try to set the bone."

"Yeah, well," -- Dean motions to the door _scoot scoot _ -- "I'm not going anywhere."

--

As soon as Sam's head disappears out the door -- he doesn't step all the way out, just one foot squishing on the wet grass -- Dean relaxes against the wall and allows his eyes to slip closed. In the dim light, Sam can't tell, but a cold sweat's broken out on his forehead and drips down his face into his eyes, down the length of his nose, right to his mouth. He licks his lips and wrinkles his nose at the taste.

It's getting harder and harder to keep up his façade in front of Sam. Simple quips die on his tongue, his eyes roll back when Sam places his attention on something other than his face. Even when he tried to fight against Sam's examination of his hands, he found it hard to do anything but let them hang there.

As dizzy as he is, Dean can't help but hear that voice in his head promising over and over that if he only stayed _here_, no one would ever leave him alone again. It laughs whenever he tries to block it out or reason with it, so he just lets it talk in all those voices it can find, each a new attempt to convince him.

He watches Sam collect rainwater in the cloth of his dress shirt, wondering about the state of the storm outside. The news reported the heavier winds would come in late-morning, followed by a torrent of rain. From the light coming in the doorway, Dean can't tell if its late night or early morning, the sliver of sky he's able to see is nothing but a collection of clouds in different shades of grey.

The shirt's dripping water on the floor as Sam walks back, small dots mingling with grey dirt to re-enact the swelling storm outside.

"I hope these weren't your favorite jeans."

"They're my only jeans," Dean replies lamely. Sam gives him a side-glance while he sits and starts dotting Dean's leg with the rainwater. "Only clean jeans?"

"You don't have to do this," Sam remarks so painfully soft, Dean struggles to make out exactly what he said.

"What?"

"Oh, c'mon, man," Sam sighs; the ripping of Dean's jeans fill the silence for a moment. "You've been -- been hiding whenever you're hurt since I was five." And to punctuate his point, Sam presses a little hard on the wound, causing Dean to let out a hiss.

"I have," -- another sharp press, another hiss -- "no idea what you're talking about. I'm just naturally this tough."

"No one's this tough, Dean." Sam looks up at him sharply, too fast for Dean to set his face right. "You must have been your doctor's worst patient."

"What? Dr. Mugle _loved_ me."

Which isn't the response Sam was expecting. Dean couldn't remember a single instance, other than inoculation shots at free clinics wherever they settled, of Sam being to see a regular doctor for a check-up. Too many questions; doctor's reports for school were forged, illnesses taken care of at home, and all three of their rag-tag family had a good degree of emergency training.

But this isn't the time to fill Sam in on the exciting childhood experience of visiting the doctor with your parents, how the paper crinkled and you wished there were crayons so you could draw a picture while waiting.

Sam, face hidden by overgrown hair, holds the flashlight up to Dean. "Hold this."

Dean takes it, but not before mocking his brother while his head's turned.

"I saw that."

Since when was Dean the younger brother?

_Since he had to take control. He'll leave soon, too, you know._

No, no. Not Sam. He came back.

He came back.

_One time, he won't._

Hell, even Dean knew that one. It was inevitable. Security was something he gave up long ago for the sake of family -- no attachments meant no lingering grudges, no arguments when one came back apologetic. Time heals all wounds, but it's also not something you always have.

Dean squares his jaw and gives Sam the light he needs to finish cleaning his leg. It's the first time he's seeing his leg, and he can't help but wince himself each time Sam lifts the now wet and bloody shirt to reapply it somewhere else. His skin's red and raw with a bit of that white peeking through no one wants to see. Bones belong on the inside, and while Dean's no stranger to broken bones, this one's making him nauseous.

Really nauseous.

"Dude, I'm gonna puke."

"Seriously?" Sam asks. "Again?"

Dean places a closed fist in front of his mouth and nods. "Yeah. Seriously. Help me up." Sam's got his arms under Dean's before he's even tried to get up from the ground, and each step they take towards the door sends a jolt of white-hot pain through his body that only helps to raise his stomach in his throat.

They only just make it; some splatters on the door, but the rain washes it off, washes both of them off. The brothers lean against the wall just inside the door, Dean just focusing on breathing. He leans back and looks up the spiral staircase, frowning at his obvious weakness. Maybe that voice had a point.

"Damn, that thing's bright," he remarks.

Sam shifts next to him, glances up, then looks at his brother. "What are you talking about? The light's been out for at least a half hour."

"Uhh, all those visions have defiantly screwed with your head." Dean points up. "That is light."

He can't help but keep the worry out of his voice.

--

A particularly angry gust of wind slams into the tower making the walls vibrate. It's followed by the loud _swish_ of waves sloshing over the beach to crash into the side of the cliff, receding with small bits of land to collect elsewhere. The storm scarred the land and took over the sky, giving the sun only bits and pieces of property through which to peek. It skated at the edges of dominating clouds, struggling in vain. With each surge came another shift in the ceiling above, taking back what little space the sun had managed to overtake.

As for the state of the lighthouse, if it was indeed casting a beam of hope through the darkness covering the island or contributing to the bleakness of early morning, was still up for debate. Pieces of a fractured reality, both Winchester brothers stood by their senses, not saying who was right and who was crazy; those are the kinds of things you can't take back.

So Sam keeps his mouth shut about his encounter with Ruth, her cold fingers, and cryptic messages about a _he_ and _she_ and their abduction of someone. Theories pop up in his mind, and he cycles through them as he cleans out his brother's leg and looks around to make sure no pieces are floating around.

Now and then, he'll give his mind a break and remember he working on his brother and not some random leg he imagines isn't attached to any living, breathing, _feeling_ being. When he does, he can hear Dean grunt and groan with each movement, feel him shift whatever body parts he can.

When it comes time to straighten the bone, Sam bites his lower lip and questions his abilities. "I don't think I can do this," he says more to himself than Dean, but the latter feels the need to respond anyway.

"Sure you can," he says in that reassuring tone Sam's heard since his first day of kindergarten when the kids made fun of him for coloring wrong. It's the tone that Sam replicated in his head during his first week of college when everything seemed overwhelming and he had half a mind to lock himself in his room and avoid classes for the rest of his life.

He doesn't need anything more, just squares his jaw and remembers that he got through kindergarten with flying colors and a recommendation to skip first grade, that he finally got through those first few weeks using his brother's voice on the phone as a crutch.

It's a rushed, messy treatment for something that should be seeing the inside of a hospital. But the car's gone, the storm's howling outside, and he doesn't feel they'd be able to leave even if he threw Dean over his shoulder and started for the village a few miles away.

"Maybe..." Hand resting on Dean's leg, Sam pulls his cell phone from his pocket. Reception on the island had been spotty, at best, but came in now and again when he didn't need it. No bars are illuminated, just the blinking 'low battery' icon in the upper corner. "Shit."

"Stop stalling, dipshit," Dean says. His voice has grown more and more quiet over the last half hour, and even his digs sound lame when he doesn't have the energy to pack a punch behind them. It gives Sam some much-desired insight into his brother's psyche, but he'd rather learn the insults were code words for terms of affection when, maybe, Dean was drunk on alcohol and not a lack of blood.

Sam sets his eyes to connect with Dean's clouded ones and sees nothing but stern resolve staring back at him. And whereas Sam usually won these impromptu staring contests, Dean's will pushes Sam to drop his useless cell phone to the ground and place both hands back on his calf.

"This is so unsanitary," he remarks. He's stalling; they both know it. "You could get an infection."

"I hate to say this, Sammy, but sitting here with it open for a few hours hasn't helped prevent that. Get it over with."

There's a last dabbling of water trickled over the wound, then Sam twists up his face, puts a hand on Dean's knee, and slowly -- patiently -- attempts to straighten things out.

Straighten it out, put it in a sling, and prey the storm ends or the car reappears so they can get the hell out of there. Sam repeats this in his head over and over until things look pretty straight, at least to someone who's only watched over shoulders as this kind of work was done, then grabs for the larger sticks and thick fabric of his sweatshirt.

Dean clears his throat -- had he said something? -- and grabs Sam's arm.

"Fuck," he remarks, voice scratchy and almost not there. "You've got no -- "

And he gives up. Just stops in the middle of the sentence, leaving Sam hanging on the edge of a joke with no conclusion in sight.

"No what?" he prods.

Dean smiles and relaxes his grip on Sam's arm. "Beside manner."

But he says it in a way that makes Sam smile and frown all at the same time. He's like a child who sees something in a window and wants it right away, dreams about it at night, begs for it every holiday. The dreams never live up to the reality -- the colors are duller, the material cheep in hands that expected greatness.

To Sam, this is what his brother turns into without the tough façade he's worn for decades.

How do you return something you've yearned for?

Dean's transformation comes without a gift receipt, so Sam settles for focusing on the task at hand. Splints he can handle, splints his father or brother would give to him for practice. Just in case. Uncertainty seems blasé now; he'd gladly of stood by and continued to watch if it meant the opportunity to use the new knowledge would never come.

"You know what," Sam decides, ripping his sweatshirt in half, "promise me you'll never change."

"Huh?"

Like a professional with a patient, Sam voids his voice of the heavy emotion he's feeling. "Don't change for my sake. I'm okay."

Dean's laughter is a pale imitation of that cocky half-filled expression of mirth he usually chuckles out. It's hoarse and scratchy and Sam's brain fills in the holes in his memory with the sounds of his brother screaming his head off.

"Hell, Sam," he remarks. "I changed _because_ of you. Can't go turning back now."

There's no response to that. Sam continues binding the leg until the arms of the sweatshirt are nice and tight around the wound, the sticks secure on each side. It's a pretty good job for someone as nervous as him, and he admires it for a second before patting his brother on the shoulder and standing to explore what else he might find discarded at the tower's base.

Because sometimes, the things you know are never things you want to hear out loud. Peter Pan saved his life, but gave himself up in the process.

Sam suddenly understands the concept of a life for a life, and his brother's reaction to the reaper makes so much sense, it hurts.

--

While searching for extra tools or dry scraps, Sam feels a cold breeze brush across his back like trailing fingers; in fact, when he turns his head to follow the sensation, he finds they _are_ fingers. Jessica's fingers.

She's standing next to him dressed in that pink v-neck sweater he loved and tight jeans. Sam takes a double take, blinking. When he opens his eyes, the drafty, cold lighthouse has been replaced with his dorm room from freshman year, back when he'd just figured out what a normal life was and had severely overcompensated when it came to decorating his half of the room.

Jess's hand lingers on his shoulder. "Hey, you okay?"

"Uhh," he stutters. What the hell is he supposed to say? 'Yeah, I'm fine, just that you died and I'm not in school anymore?'

"C'mon, Bartle's lecture wasn't _that_ bad. Seriously, you need to lighten up. No one believes all that stuff, anyway."

Sam feels like an actor who's forgotten his lines. He _knows_ what she's talking about -- it's his memory. But his exact responses have escaped him, off somewhere where his body is, back in that lonely lighthouse.

He fibs, instead, not one to waste a life-like memory of Jess. "Sure. I know that."

"Good," she smiles, flopping down on his unmade bed. "Cause the faces you made -- " She bursts out laughing, hand flying to cover her mouth in that lady-like manner of hers. She was always doing things like that, the result of her upbringing. It amused Sam, and he made her a sort of case study on how people _really_ interacted.

"Wow. I'm glad you find me so amusing."

And the painful reality of this memory comes crashing down because he knows what she's going to say, knew it the moment the line came stumbling out of his mouth.

She's going to say, "I find you more than amusing." And he's going to smile an awkward, strained smile and try to play it off. She'll grin and look him in the eyes and tell him that's one of the things she finds so attractive, his being completely lost in most situations.

She'll run her hand down the side of his face and give a kiss that quickly develops into something deeper.

And while Sam's half-convinced to stay there and let this particular memory play out, hell, he'd be _crazy_ if he didn't, there's something nagging him, and he feels it slipping farther and father away as Jess stands and opens her perfect pink lips to say what she was going to say, what he _knows_ she's going to say.

He turns and runs. This isn't right, _something_ isn't right, and, as Dean calls it, his Spidey Sense is ringing. Loudly. The doorknob's cold, which gives him pause, but he wrenches the door open anyway --

-- there's a rush of wind and Jess's painted lips are coming at him, painted --

Sam lets out a scream and tries to pull away as Jess dissolves quickly before his eyes, blond hair turning into long strands of silver. Hands reach out and grasp his shoulders with a strength Jess never had, and whatever this was couldn't, and pull him close.

Empty brown eyes replace Jess's light ones, the face stretches long, and Sam finds himself face to face with the _her_ Ruth was warning him against.

His feet try to pull him out of the skeleton's arms, but the movement's futile. She pulls him forward, a smile playing on what's left of her mouth; several teeth are missing from her exposed jaw.

"I find you attractive, too," she speaks with the wind, pulling him into an embrace. A cry dies on his lips as she drags him out the doorway and into a kiss.

She continues moving back, causing Sam to stumble forward. The door to the lighthouse slams closed behind him; he struggles to move, to look behind him, to _get this thing off him_, but all he can do is keep from throwing up in his mouth.

--

Gripping the flashlight tight in his right hand, Dean watches in wonder as his brother almost runs for the door and throws it open, relief flooding his face as soon as his hand made contact with the door knob. The flashlight had fallen from his hand, clanking to the floor with the hollow _thud_ of plastic, and almost rolled out of Dean's reach. It took some quick reflexes -- which he was sure had pretty much left him by now -- to catch it before it rolled too far, but by that time, Sam had shut the door behind him.

_I told you_.

The tone suggests a child holding his tongue before dropping 'so' in that condescending way only children can make sound innocent.

He knows; he's still trying to get away with it even at twenty-seven.

Still gaping at the door, Dean fumbles with the flashlight. The light's dimming, and no matter how hard he shakes the flashlight, it continues to fade until there's nothing left. Small reflective mirrors suck all light from the circular room and like the light, what little warmth had managed to build up over the incalculable hours wanders away until he's left shivering.

_There's no reason to stay awake._

That damn voice again, this time aggravating the steady headache caused by the lingering tendrils of shock. Whoever it is -- because at this point, there's no doubt in Dean's mind that a poltergeist has taken up residence with him -- has settled on a slightly younger version of his own voice. Not the odd, wavering tone of a teenager, but the sweet internal version only he knows. The one that voiced all his doubts and apprehensions at their new life, the one that asked over and over again if mom was ever coming back.

It comforted him when no one else could. Like a best friend no one could see, there's a lingering part of Dean's personality left over from _before_ -- and this is how he thinks of his life, as _before_ and now -- a glimpse of who he _could_ have become had life not taken a tragic turn and thrust him prematurely into adulthood.

Most of the time, it's the voice he argues with when he has a blank look in his eyes, the psychological component of the conscious voice, a connection with deep buried _things_; he doesn't know technical terms, just that, somewhere, deep down, there's a four year old playing in the backyard with his mom who stops sometimes to talk to him.

For this reason, the intrusion is deep and personal, and takes most of his energy to fight against. Because you can't go from listening to it all your life to denying it's very existence. To do that would be to lose a part of himself, the sane, logical, _normal_ part that acts like glue to fill the gaps Sam can't.

He feels that either way, he's going to lose _something_; Sam or his sanity.

"Why do you stop playing around and actually show yourself," Dean tries. "What are you, a coward ghost or something?"

Eyelids flutter; he's stayed awake too long, pushed himself too hard, and he can feel his chest constrict in rebellion with every breath. It tightens, threatening to pull him apart at the seams, his sides stretching. So he starts to breath shallow, it's more comfortable, but makes him lightheaded.

"God damnit," he swears. Giving up is not an option, not when Sam owes him an explanation, not when his car is missing and his father's missing and there's still a demon on the loose he _swore_ to kill and send back to hell.

Dean tilts his head back against the wall with a small degree of force, hoping the contact will give him a small boost of adrenaline -- something, _anything_ to keep him from falling asleep. When it doesn't, he takes a deep breath, ignores the pain in his chest, and stares up at the spiral staircase.

Where the _fuck_ had his brother gone?

_He left you, like I said he would. Like everyone does. Are you really surprised?_

"Heh," Dean breathes. If he speaks out loud, it's not as crazy. "Yeah, yeah I am."

"No, you're not."

Dean can't see much in the dark, and the spillage from the light isn't doing much to help but shade in the shadows of a room without corners. On the other side of the generator, where the stairs begin their climb, a shadow flickers like a blinking light in the fog. He squints, trying to make out the shape, when his flashlight sparks to light just long enough for him see the outline of a boy standing there, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jean shorts, face long and worn.

"Huh. You must be Thomas," Dean remarks, though the boy isn't wearing the same outfit he was in the newspaper picture. He cocks his head to the side, breaths shallow again. "How do you know he didn't go for help?"

"How do you?" Thomas asks, still using a stolen voice. "He left his phone."

Thomas is right. Sam's phone sits where he dropped it after checking for a signal, the screen black from a dead battery.

"He doesn't need it."

"You lie to yourself as much as my dad lied to my mom."

With that voice -- God, it gives him a _headache_ -- Dean can't be sure if he means Thomas' dad or his own, and it takes a moment for him to dig through the fog his head's become to make heads out of tails.

"Yeah, well, sometimes adults have to lie."

"Why?"

That's a good question. "Because," -- God, does he just want to go to _sleep_ -- "because sometimes the truth hurts."

"Like your dad leaving you," Thomas says.

"He didn't leave," Dean retorts stronger than he thought possible. "He had something to do."

"But you did everything he asked you to. Did you do something wrong? Did you make him angry?"

The little fucker's been in his head way too long to not know the answer to that whopper of a question. "Yeah," Dean sighs, letting his eyes slip closed. "I think I did."

--

Fear mingles with repulsion as the woman drags them farther and farther from the lighthouse and the memory-created room until Sam feels the sharp prick of rusted chain-link brush his side. Not enough to cut through his t-shirt, just the catching of fabric as each link groped at his shirt, hungry for the skin that lay underneath. _She_ pushes him against it, her hair flying in the updrafts caused by the cliff; she reminds Sam of Medusa, the way it flies around her head, then moves like slithering snakes to wrap around his wrists.

Hair should break with the smallest application of strength, but _hers_ cuts against his wrist with the same ferocity you'd expect from tying his wrists with the jagged, rusted metal of the fence he's found himself attached to. Rain thunders down from above, making everything slick, slippery, and once his feet lose their footing, placing all his weight on the restraints. The sliding of blood down his arm is warm, almost scalding compared to the freezing rain pelting him.

_She_ regards him with those dead, hollow eyes, too small for her eye sockets, and they rattle a bit whenever _she_ moves her head. _Her_ caress is a lot like Ruth's -- cold, boney, and it sends a bit of a shiver down Sam's spine -- but unlike Ruth, _she_ presses in hard and Sam discovers first-hand how sharp a bone can be if applied correctly.

"I didn't know Thomas's little trick would work," _she_ remarks. Instead of forming her voice from a kaleidoscope of memory, she uses her own deep, raspy whisper. "Men like you are rarely so gullible."

"Like what?" Sam asks. Keep your cool. Perhaps spirits are like animals; they can smell fear coming off you in waves.

"Psychic." _She_ hisses like it's a curse. "Your brother was against the idea, I hear. How does it feel to know all this could have been avoided if you'd only listened to him?"

"He knew what he was getting into," Sam replies. "He _trusts_ me."

"Too bad you can't trust your instincts." There's a spark in the air that makes the hair on Sam's arms stick up. Static electricity, and he's not sure if it's a by-product of _her_ energy or a warning. "A baby. I've seen many of your kind before. But you served your purpose."

_She_ turns her back to him, leaving him tied to the fence, and heads back towards the lighthouse. Sam's mind is churning over her words -- Thomas lured both of them there through Sam. _He's_ the one who pushed Dean to investigate when they could have left. _He's_ the one who said they were supposed to be there, the one who spouted all this psychic crap he barely understood.

When _she_ reaches the door and sends him a grin over _her_ shoulder, Sam struggles against the bindings made from _her_ hair.

A trap. And they both walked right into it.


	10. Chapter 9

I've been horrible at responding to reviews. I am so, so sorry. I just returned from an extended stay in Los Angeles, and just _finally_ unpacked my suitcase and got everything in order. It's been a hectic week here in KiraLand, but everything's calming down...a little bit. Expect the next chapter and epilogue soon, as I have another fic I'd like to start posting soon.

Chapter Nine

Thomas shimmers with each revolution of light, unable to hold his own in that suffocating darkness. In one moment, he'll stand with his hands in his pockets at the end of the stairs, the next, he's directly across from Dean letting his hands fall at his sides. When Dean doesn't continue, doesn't give any sort of indication he's going to reveal his secret, Thomas flickers to his side and places a hand on Dean's head.

"What, is this some kind of mind meld?" Dean coughs.

There's a prick at the top of his head, then the sensation like an egg's been cracked over it and is dripping -- slowly -- down his head onto his shoulders. The feeling's warm and soft, something he hasn't felt in a long time, and leaks down his arms and surrounds his chest. Instead of increasing the constriction he feels there, the sensation makes it swell four times its size.

Ignoring Thomas for a moment, Dean takes several deep, rattling breaths, and feels the dizziness in his head dissipate.

As soon as it does, he remembers Thomas, remembers his hand sitting on the crown of his head, that this sensation turning him into molded plastic is coming from his touch.

"Get off me," Dean grumbles suddenly. He waves his hands at Thomas, expecting, if this were reality, to push the boy against the wall. His arms grab at air, passing through the shimmering outline he can make out over his left shoulder, which only makes him up his efforts -- both arms are pushing against Thomas, but the boy doesn't move, just keeps his hand there, on Dean's head, keeps the feeling leaking down. Dean knows he'll be a goner if the warmth reaches his leg.

Time to move. Gathering up the strength granted by Thomas and whatever he's doing, Dean pushes himself up into a half crouch and backs against the bulky generator until contact is broken. He feels like a cork's been pulled from somewhere on his body, energy leaking out faster than transmission fluid through a faulty hose. He staggers for a moment, regaining his footing just as the door flies open.

"Thank God," Dean mutters. "Sam, get these ghosts off me, will you?"

"Just a few more minutes, and you won't need to worry anymore."

Dean blanches as _she_ comes through the door, larger than life with her wind-wiped hair and rotted complexion. Her eyes, dark and small, focus on him and she stretches her jaw into what he assumes is a smile -- he can't tell, because the absence of several of her teeth makes it look like she's just opened a gaping hole in the middle of what remains of her face.

"Oh, shit..." Dean breaths. Because when you've come this close to the scarier things of the world, you know when you're in trouble.

Sam's had to turn his wrists so the hair cuts against the tougher skin of the back of his hands instead of that tender, thin skin just under the base of his palms. The storm's stronger than ever, spray from waves managing to cascade over the top of the cliff. Droplets from the ocean are cooler than those from the sky; Sam can taste the salt on his lips each time he presses them together to keep from making any noise to indicate his attempts at escape.

Not that he can see much. Wind and rain cloud what little vision he has past floppy bags plastered to his forehead, and blinking is a poor substitute for using your hands to wipe water out of your eyes.

There's that tingling again, that zap of electricity that tells Sam he doesn't have much time.

He changes tactics; the fence has to be weaker than whatever's holding him to it, so he claws at the rusted metal. _Damnit_, why did he have to be so stubborn about investigating Thomas's appearance? Why hadn't he just _listened_ when Dean told him they don't help lost ghosts, that there were other things more worthy of their time? Wasn't this...whatever this was he had...supposed to _help_ them?

But he knows why he didn't listen. Because Dean didn't feel what he did, didn't have the constant nightmares, the odd sensations when walking around even the calmest of places. He wasn't plagued by something he didn't understand, and that, at times, made Sam jealous.

At other times, it made him feel superior.

Just a tad. Enough to even out all those years of being the weaker one, the one who backed up the back up, who always seemed the odd man out in the outsider's club. For once, he had a leg up against his bigger, stronger brother, and he liked the sway that brought. He wasn't the one being given orders or told what to hunt; _he_ gave them, _he_ said what was out there, and Dean couldn't argue back to tell him he was wrong.

Hindsight is twenty-twenty, and even if his brother isn't developing signs of psychic ability, his instincts are as sharp as they came.

He's not prone to talking to himself, at least not yet, so he chastises himself mentally. _All my fault_. Sam picks at the fence, ignoring the blood welding up under his fingernails. Dean's stuck in the lighthouse with some vindictive ghost with little in way of escape.

Why can't he just get _free_?

Sam steals a glance across the ocean -- he doesn't need his eyes to grab at the fence -- and spots the flickering light of the ship growing closer and closer as it tumbles over turbulent waves. It's being thrown around like a toy boat stuck in the middle of a bathtub, tossed every which way but straight.

A look at the lighthouse confirms his suspicion as to _why_; the light remains dark, refusing to flash and give the ship some indication of which way was land.

Sam looks down in that worried way he has. Like they need _another_ complication.

First things first. There's a popping sound as a rung comes free, and Sam almost laughs in surprise. Those are his nerves coming through, and despite his situation, he lets a smile crack open across his face.

But before he can get the next, the crackle in the air starts to sizzle, and he can swear there's a flash of lightning that hits the field. He shuts his eyes, tight, before it can blind him, but his skin feels scorched anyway. Rain cools what it can, but Sam's uncomfortably warm, enough to make him want to slip out of his own skin.

It takes the feeling of the string around his wrists falling away for him to notice he's not alone in the field outside the lighthouse anymore.

Ruth is standing there, and instead of a calm, friendly look of warning written on her features, she's wearing one of pure determination.

"I'm going to need your help." And with Jess's voice so fresh in his mind, she steals it, the only thing that could stop him in his tracks.

Latin isn't Dean's strong suit -- he can read it fluently, and knows he should then be able to _speak_ it fluently, but reproducing it has always been harder -- but he starts to mutter what protection chants he knows in hope it'll stop this freaky woman in her tracks.

Because she is freaking the _shit_ out of him.

The chant isn't working, so he tries another one. When he fumbles over an easier word, _she_ laughs at him. "I have no idea what you're saying," she says sweetly. "You'll have to teach me."

"I'm not teaching you _anything_." Dean keeps both hands on the generator behind him and uses it to guide him farther from the door. He almost knocks his head on the edge of the curling stairs, but ducks just in time and keeps going until he's on one side of the room, _she_'s on the other, and Thomas stands in between.

With that warming feeling gone, it's harder to breathe again, and the effort from putting as much space as possible between himself and the creature that's just entered has him bent slightly at the waist, panting. After a few more seconds, despite keeping as much weight off his left leg as possible, he finds the room spinning again and slouches onto the stairs.

Instead of addressing _her_, he turns to Thomas. "What the fuck?"

The kid flinches at Dean's language. He turns to the woman as one would turn to a mother, a questioning, hurt look asking _what do I do_? She just smiles in that odd, open hole way, and motions with an arm covered in shredded material towards Dean. _Answer, he doesn't mean it._

"Don't swear." Thomas selects as his answer carefully. It _sounds_ like a parent, though not one Dean's known. He's usually yelled at by strangers in dirt towns, people not used to brash, abrasive language used in everyday conversation, not little ghost children.

"Sorry," Dean retorts sarcastically. "Who is _she_?"

"My mom."

Dean's mind flashes back to the library and the microfiche with its aged photos in black and yellow. Of the Chillins family standing proud outside the ranch keeper's house; William, Ruth, and their young son, Thomas.

"I hate to tell you this, kid," Dean says, leaning his head against the next step up, "but that's not your mom."

Ruth places a hand on the side of Sam's head, and suddenly, he's not leaning against the perimeter fence anymore, he's leaning up against a support beam for the green swing set. The metal's just as rusted as the fence, if not more, and has the same feel against his back through his shirt.

He scuttles forward, remembering his goal, his brother stuck in the lighthouse with the other woman ghost, and he realizes there are too many ghosts here for this to be a big coincidence. This place is _haunted_ on a grand scale and they bumbled right into it.

Halfway to the lighthouse, he feels something grab the back of his shirt and _tug._ He slides against his will, shoes flattening slick grass as he digs his heels into the ground to try to stop moving backwards.

His back _thunks_ against the swing set, followed by his head. Still soft from the fall atop the lighthouse, the action sends a shiver of pain through his skull causing his vision to waver for a minute.

But a minute is all Ruth needs.

She pulls him up by the front of his shirt and stares into his eyes. There's a depth there missing in the other ghost's eyes, emotion and feeling fueled by fresh memories of her son's death, of _her_ death, how their lives were stolen by a poltergeist. Who knew this would happen when William Chillins was granted a lighthouse of his own? It was supposed to be a glorious position, one of honor and duty.

"I'm going to get him back. I'm going to get him back from _her_."

She replaces her hand on the side of Sam's head, resting her thumb in the crook of his neck almost tenderly as if he's her own son. He relaxes for a second, memories of Angela and her kindness coming back. They're blocked out by a scorching red fire that causes him to cry out.

His voice is drown out by the wind. Ruth's hold tightens.

_She_ lets out a scream, a banshee-like howl that echoes so loudly through the circular tower, Dean has to cover his ears to keep from going deaf. He expects her to cross the space between them and attack him, but her attention is turned towards something outside he can't see. Maybe Sam's doing something to get him out of here; without Sam's abilities, he can't tell what, if anything, is going on outside of the dull whitewashed tower room.

He goes off _her_ reaction, and uses the moment to catch Thomas's attention.

"Dude, I saw pictures. That's not your mom. That's a crazy fucking ghost."

"I told you not to swear!" No longer the sweet, innocent child, Thomas runs at Dean, hands held out in front of him. From earlier, Dean's pretty sure the kid will run right through him -- an unpleasant feeling all in itself -- so when Thomas's hands make contact with his stomach, he reels back completely caught off guard into the wall, left leg bending against his will.

One of the sticks holding it straight snaps. The sound is loud enough, _she_ turns from nothingness back to Dean, to Thomas standing next to him, huffing with anger.

Blood's leaking down Dean's chin, he's biting his lip so hard to keep from letting out a sound. The pain running through his leg threatens his consciousness, and there's no way in _hell_ he's letting the lights go out while things are the way they are.

_She_ seems pleased. "Don't fight it," _she_ coos, "the sooner you give in, the sooner everything will be the way it should be."

Black spots dance on the edge of Dean's vision. He blinks rapidly and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. Light huffs of oxygen aren't enough anymore; he takes a deep breath and instantly regrets it -- the spots grow into blotches.

"Mommy," Thomas says from Dean's side -- if he were any farther, Dean doubts he'd be able to make out a word. "What about me? Didn't you say I was all you needed?"

_Please, please fight amongst yourselves_, Dean implores, because he knows he's not going to last much longer, and doesn't want to think about what they'll do to him once he's out.

--

First, Sam notices Ruth has her own voice.

It no longer imitates the fractured glass of memories stored in Sam's head. Instead, Ruth speaks with a deep alto voice full of rich variations as she starts to sing. Nothing complicated or earth-shattering, just a simple tune from days gone by, and despite Dean's extensive collection of older music, Sam can't place it.

She starts soft, eyes closed, hand still stuck on the side of the head, then starts to raise her voice as the chorus repeats. There's an odd feeling of watching everything from outside his body; Sam can almost see himself standing there, slack in her grip, as she holds tighter and tighter with each quiver of her voice.

Second, that he's no longer in control.

Despite fighting back seconds ago, there's a deep feeling that he _shouldn't_, it's no longer required. That nagging feeling he's felt ever since setting foot on the island is finally quiet, the vague terms it shouted at him for a week satisfied. _This_ is where he was supposed to be -- here, on the island, near the lighthouse, but more importantly, in the presence of Ruth Chillins and her odd song.

Whatever it is, there's a lullaby quality to it, and Sam feels himself nodding off on her second repetition.

Until she switches songs, switches from a quiet, soothing tone to a harsher one that sounds like a distant relative of whatever usually blasts from the speakers of the Impala.

Sam's sucked back into his body, slamming into his ribcage to feel the pain in his head again. It's spreading, quickly, and he has no idea how to stop it. Only that it's related to Ruth and her song.

_Her song_. It clicks into place, how her voice is different -- no longer drawing from his memories, but from _him_. Like a giant amplifier, the same abilities that lead him here are allowing her to regain her own voice, her own _self_, and broadcast them across the yard.

The longer she does it, the less transparent she appears.

And the weaker he gets.

Dean decides, with whatever time he's got left before he becomes some doll for this ghost to play with, that speaking with Thomas isn't going to get him anywhere. So he shifts his weight on the stairs with a groan and re-directs his attention.

"So," he starts lamely, "uhh...how are you?"

He needs to find a weapon. Normally, he'd distract whatever needed distracting, slide across the room, grab a gun or shotgun full of rock salt, and waste the sucker. But with nothing but an unreliable flashlight, two cell phones lacking signal, one dead, and a shotgun with that much needed rock salt that had disappeared somewhere between running down the stairs and waking up dazed, Dean felt like a guest character on _MacGuiver_ who had half his talent than an experienced hunter. Whatever could be made from his rag-tag group of everyday items was unknown to Dean, and he figured he would probably need duct tape to complete it, anyway.

With dim lighting, there was little to no hope of finding the lost shotgun unless the light played off the metal finish _just right_ through an act of God. That is, if it were on the ground floor. The stairs spiraling to the light's house atop the tower was tough and thick, and if the gun fell out while he dashed, then fell, to the bottom, it _could_ be on one of any number of stairs, none of which he was in any condition to climb.

_She_ seems to be distracted by something, as does Thomas, their bodies turned towards a curve in the tower that faces the ocean on the other side, eyes wide, arms hanging at their sides as if they're receiving a message and haven't gotten any further instructions. Aliens do it all the time in crappy sci-fi movies cable stations like to play at three am; they always snap out of it, kill all the humans, and return to the mother ship.

Well, _that's_ not going to happen. Dean cranes his neck and tries to get a better view of the stairs above him. He couldn't have fallen _that_ far; his head was still in one piece, and a broken leg wasn't the worst injury someone's suffered from a tumble. Scoots back on the step, tries again, pushing himself up with his left hand on the next step up to gain some leverage.

The light above swings around; spillage flows down into the tower for just a moment. Dean pushes up higher, ignoring the protests in his wrist, and gains view over a few more steps.

Metal captures the light and shines for a second before the light revolves again and the tower grows dark.

"Four steps," he says to himself. "No problem." He's gotten out of worse.

Dean looks over his shoulder, checking if Thomas and _her_ are still distracted. Thomas has taken a few steps forward, but his posture's the same; _she_ is standing near the door and hasn't moved an inch.

_Keep talking to the mother ship_. Using his hands -- and wincing as the wounds there split back open -- Dean climbs three stairs, then falls back against the wall. Even from this height, he feels a bit dizzy, and focuses on grasping the shotgun with his fingertips instead. They graze the familiar wood of the gun's but; he feels it sliding towards him and allows himself a cocky smile.

Victory is short-lived. The angle of the barrel is to far to the right, and as Dean moves to grasp the end of the gun, the balance is thrown off, and it topples, barrel first, to the ground below, hitting the cement with a clatter.

"Son of a bitch," Dean swears, watching with keen interest as the shotgun flips a few times, then skids to a rest with a _thunk_ against the generator. He shakes his head; nothing has gone right since they arrived, which must have been part of all these spirits' master plan.

Or the sign that his luck has finally run out.

Whatever the case may be, Dean's not one to ponder the metaphysics of such things as _luck_ and _destiny_. Right now, his only goal is to get his shotgun and shoot the face off the woman keeping him in the lighthouse and, if what he's heard is right, keeping Thomas' spirit hostage.

He shutters at the thought.

But his sympathy for Thomas ends there, because if it weren't for him, Dean could be cruising down the highway headed west with the windows rolled down and some _real_ monster to deal with. Something that is straightforward, exists as it is, and doesn't resort to false fronts and trickery.

Then again, it takes one to know one. Smoke and mirrors have become his normal mode of operation, and if one were to turn off the machine and shatter the mirrors, they'd be left with something no one wants to see. He's okay with that; he saw Sam's face when he let down his façade while getting his leg looked at, saw the awe and disgust. That look alone was enough for Dean to slip back into the maze and lock the door behind him.

Leave the touchy-feely crap to Sam; he seems to be good at it.

_She_ notices the clamber of the gun, the grunts Dean emits without really knowing it as he slides back down the stairs to the bottom -- reaching it _this_ time without injury. Thomas remains in his own little world, which is exactly where Dean prefers him. Easier to deal with one at a time than two coming at him, though if it weren't for his leg, two would be a cakewalk.

Floating-yet-walking, _she_ comes at him, knowing something is amiss, that unlike muttered Latin, _this_ could hurt her. But Dean's quicker, years of training and instinct taking over when the danger becomes immediate. He slides off the bottom step, uses his right leg to pivot across the distance to the generator, and sweeps the shotgun up with his left hand.

"_This_ is much easier to understand," he grins, "trust me."

Balanced on one leg, Dean raises the barrel of the shotgun and allows his grin to grow into a smile as he snaps back the loader and fingers the trigger.

As he squeezes down, Thomas suddenly comes to life, flying across the room and through the door in a matter of seconds -- no, _fractions_ of seconds. Moving with supernatural grace, he's out the door before Dean can fully pull the trigger, dragging with him _her_. She howls, louder than before, and grabs the back of his sweater, desperate to keep him in the lighthouse.

But their strength is equal at this point, and _she_ disappears out the door just as Dean re-focuses and fires.

Even with his eyes clenched tightly closed and withering in what can only be called physical pain brought on my psychic trauma, the sound of a shotgun blast full of rock salt is unmistakable to Sam. (_Fired it up close and personal -- _) It echoes through the storm, wind unable to drown it out completely, and it floats through the air until it dissipates into nothing. If for nothing else, Sam smiles; his brother's still up and holding his own.

Which means he'll probably, like always, have to save Sam's ass.

That small inkling of psychic-related superiority's replaced with anger -- at himself, not Dean -- for not only getting them into this and thinking he knew what he was doing, but for screwing up so badly his big brother would have to rescue him. Like a damsel in distress.

There's another shot, and Ruth cries out. Her hand drops from Sam's neck, and his head instantly fills with relief, enough so that he ventures opening his eyes to see what's going on.

Ruth's shouting, _she's_ yelling, and Dean's hobbled out of the lighthouse to the fence, using it as support as he levels his shotgun at _her_.

Thomas, he discovers after scanning the area, is nowhere to be seen.

With all the noise combined with the booming thunder of the full-blown storm, Sam can't make out a single thing, even with Ruth standing right next to him, hand on his wrist. He tries to wiggle out of it, using his other hand to pry at her fingers, but her fingers don't budge. Just dig farther into the raw skin encircling his wrists.

There's another shot, and Sam expects to look up from Ruth's hand to find _her_ obliterated by the salt, leaving only Ruth in the way for as long as it takes for Dean to aim and fire.

But when he does look up -- and he blinks a few times to make sure he's not seeing things due to the heavy downpour the sky's releasing -- _she_ is still standing there, inches from Dean. He levels the shotgun again, but catches sight of something near Sam.

"Sam!" Dean shouts, but the wind reduces it to a ghostly whisper. He whips his head around to see Thomas -- the previously treated with salt Thomas -- and realizes their mistake. Thomas' bones have been lost to the sea, as have Ruth's and _hers_, because now he knows the missing woman died at the lighthouse after all. All three bodies eaten by bacteria and dragged out by the undertow; no way to salt and burn them, even if the sea's helped by saturating the remains in natural salt.

The shotgun of rock salt will slow them down, but won't stop them.

Time stretches in front of Sam, pulls forward for eternity. _That_ is what's up for grabs here if they fail. The life thereafter will be nothing but sitting here, between a lighthouse and a cliff, waiting for someone new to come along and take their place.

Thomas approaches Ruth, a smile drawn upon shimmering features. Where the light's coming from, he doesn't know, but he's open to the idea the lighthouse never went out, that he's just seeing -- or not -- seeing things. A tearful reunion appears imminent, and Sam finally pries himself free of Ruth.

But before Ruth can place her hands on her son, there's a howl from across the field, so loud, the wind cowers in fear, reduced to a whisper on the lips of clouds. Her figure turns towards Ruth and Thomas, then whips back around, a boney hand flying out to strike the shotgun from Dean's hands.

He struggles against her, but her hand's snaked its way around his throat, her hair dancing in the static electricity caused by the storm, and Sam's wrists quiver with the memory.

There's no time; even at his fastest, he won't cross the field in time. So he turns to Ruth and Thomas, standing inches apart, afraid.

"Help!" he begs.

Ruth shakes her head, and lets her hand hover over her son's skin. "I can't. I just can't. She'll take him back and I won't be able to stand it!"

"But if you don't, she'll _kill_ my brother!"

But Ruth's collapsed into a pile of tears, her hands so close to her son, yet so far. _She can't touch him until _she's_ found a replacement_.

And despite being the one leading them here, putting everything in place for this all to happen, _she_ is after Dean.

Sam breaks out into a run.

Dean watches Sam with distracted interest. Six feet away, and he can keep up with a silent television; reading Sam's lips as he argues with Ruth Chillins isn't even a challenge, and he feels something tighten under his chest when Sam begs for her to help save his life.

But they both know she can't. For years, she's stayed on that swing set, waited for someone else to come along and catch _her_ attention, and now that it's all happened, now that she's so close to getting what she's waited for, there's nothing more she'll do. Sam starts off on a desperate run, but _her_ tangled mess of hair has found its way around his wrists, and she's starting diagonally, away from Sam, towards the cliff.

He can hear Sam shouting, yelling, _screaming_ behind them, but his body's ridged and tired, ready to give out, and it makes him the perfect marionette. _She_ skips and hums on the way to the cliff, and Dean hums to himself as well. _Don't think about it._ His luck ran out hours ago -- how long had it been since they arrived? -- and he steels himself for the inevitable.

A few feet from the edge, she stops, pulling her puppet along to her side. Even with the storm raging around them, the ocean's beautiful. The steep fall to the beach below is a marvel of nature, and Dean looks down at it almost fondly; his last sight is going to be _anything_ but the creature beside him, eyes ablaze with insanity.

Dean feels a gentle, almost maternal push from behind, and he's free-falling, flying through the cool sea air.


	11. Chapter 10

And now, the thrilling conclusion -- in this and the next chapter bring this story to an end. It's been a fun and wild ride -- I hope you all have had as much fun reading this as I did writing it.

Keep an eye out for a new fic coming out within the next month -- and I promise, I'll post that one faster than this one!

Thank you to all the readers and reviewers. I love you all. This fandom's been the most kind when it comes to reviewing -- and I've been writing fanfiction for over ten years! Thank you all!

Chapter Ten

Everything happens so fast, Sam finds it hard to remember the details even years later, when him and Dean sit at a bar sharing stories of their closest encounters with their father over a couple of beers and a sea of newspaper print-outs.

The clearest part of the memory is that of Dean disappearing off the side of the cliff.

Dean feet fell first, almost into thin air, and _she_ dangled him over the edge almost _tempting_ him to fight back against her. He swats at her hair a few times, then reaches for his waist and the knife he habitually carried there. But when Sam changes direction and gets within ten feet, _she_ lets go.

But instead of smiling, of launching into laughter at finding a replacement for Thomas, she screams. It's one of those deep, gut-wrenching screams that mingles with tears of agony. _She _isn't celebrating, isn't _happy_.

_She_ is in agony.

Sam launches himself at the spot where Dean disappeared like a baseball player racing the ball coming in to home plate. He slides along the slick grass, thankful for the heavy rainfall, and almost overshoots the safe distance he'd estimated.

As he thrusts his hand down, he catches sight of the ship from the corner of his eye, and as something grasps his wet fingers, he watches as the ship tops a wave only to have another crash into it. The light atop it wavers for a moment, then disappears as the ship is overtaken by the turbulent, angry ocean.

He doesn't look down or over or at anything beside the spot where the ship once was until he hears a muttered, "What the _fuck_...?" below him.

When Sam turns to look at his brother, he catches sight of _her_ dress fluttering on the way down to the ocean.

"Huh," he remarks. "She threw _herself_ off the cliff."

"Yeah. Very interesting. Really, Sam. Think you can, I don't know, pull me up now? Or are we going to hang here for awhile? While the view's great, the death drop part's not appealing to me at the moment."

Sam smiles, so relieved, he could pull his brother into a tight, girl-moment hug and not care. He reaches down, grasps Dean's other hand, and pulls him up onto the grass.

The brothers lay there, panting for a moment, trying to figure out what the _hell_ just happened.

"Why would she do that?" Sam asks, closing his eyes against the onslaught of rain. "I mean, she got what she wanted, didn't she?"

"It's a little insulting," Dean mutters, chest heaving. "Aren't I a catch?"

Sam rolls his eyes under closed eyelids. "I'm sure you would have _loved_ spending eternity as her pet."

"Sometimes, it's nice to be wanted."

Sam opens his mouth, but Dean beats him to it.

"By someone who's not _you_."

They lay silent for a moment, taking in the sounds of the storm. Lightning flashes somewhere behind them, and a loud boom shakes the ground beneath them.

Sam finally speaks up. "I think it was the ship."

"Ship?"

At Dean's question, Sam leans up on one elbow and faces him. Dean's eyes are closed, arms thrown across his stomach, breathing shallow. His face is as white as Ruth's was, and at the thought of her, he props himself up on both elbows and looks around.

"They're gone."

"Thomas, yeah," Dean says as-matter-of-factly. At Sam's questioning look -- Dean's popped an eye open just in case -- he smirks. "He was a guest for a bit." Dean taps the side of his head.

That surprises Sam, and he shakes his head, bewildered at his brother's blasé attitude towards someone else invading his head. Because Sam's felt it before, and it isn't something you take lightly.

But Dean takes everything lightly, or so it seems, including his injuries at the moment.

Perhaps their conversation is better suited for somewhere _dryer_. Sam stands and holds out his hands. "C'mon," he says to Dean, "you look like shit."

"Thanks," Dean replies, grasping Sam's outstretched hands. He leans against his brother and lets Sam lead him back towards the lighthouse. "Bitch."

As they get closer, the light above them swings around and catches on something. Sam squints, and swears it's --

"Son of a bitch! I swear to God if they did _anything_ to my baby, I will hunt down their fucking bones and burn 'em myself."

It's the last thing Sam really hears Dean say with any amount of enthusiasm for three days.

--

Dean falls asleep. Sunlight chases the car as Sam drives away from the lighthouse with a little more finesse than required, gunning the purring engine and _getting the hell out of there_ without a single thought for speed limits or police officers. His mind chews on the last day -- no, two days, according to the time and date on Dean's phone -- as he drives down the gravel road to the main highway.

The road's empty at such an early hour, the sun rising behind them casting demented shadows on the graying pavement. Sam's thankful for such solitude, even from his brother; it allows him to think uninterrupted, to figure out the _hows_ and _whys_ of not only the last 36 hours, but the entire trip. Were they brought there to deal with the ghosts, or their family? Or was it all connected, somehow, a trial by fire to deem them worthy?

Of what?

There's an existential question he doesn't have the answer to. Pre-Law had been so _easy_ compared to the everyday he lived now. Proof and president and black and white. You were guilty or innocent. Convicted or released. There were no in-betweens, no shades of grey. Nothing outside the realm of what could be seen and heard to ponder.

There are a few bumps in the road outside the entrance to the Cranberry Bog, enough to jostle the chassis a bit. Sam's hands bump on the steering wheel, jarring his wrists enough to remind him they're still bleeding a bit. He steels a glance at his brother; Dean's head's lolled in that space between the seat and the window, and each puff of breath steams the window a bit.

Eyes back on the road.

They need _answers_, and a lot of them. The puzzle box got knocked over somehow, and there are a few pieces they can't place without being able to see the bigger picture.

And what _is_ the bigger picture? That a woman died on the lighthouse while trying to restore the light, and, consumed by grief, loneliness, or hell, plain old insanity, decided to stick around?

And what the _hell_ did that have to do with the ship?

Fifteen minutes out, Sam's worry manifests in his stomach as butterflies, and he reaches out to shake Dean's shoulder. Gently, at first, then a little harder as the road pressed on and houses appeared in the distance.

A grunt is all he needs, and he feels safe enough to get out for a moment and ask for directions.

If not for the winding roads and one way streets, he would have arrived sooner, when Dean was still half-asleep but responsive each time Sam made some kind of remark about the car. The shocks were worn, the breaks needing replacement -- anything to keep Dean from falling back asleep.

But when the directions became complicated, and he needed to consult a piece of paper every few streets, the jokes stopped and so did Dean, his head falling against the window this time, puffs of air too small to resemble clouds.

After twenty-three minutes -- he timed it on the radio's clock -- he pulls up in front of a weathered grey building a few stories tall, looking more like a larger cottage than a hospital. Hands shaking more from nerves than anything else, Sam dashes from the driver's seat and opens the passenger door with a _creak_. Hands under his brother's shoulders, he's ready to give it his all despite being exhausted --

"Let me help you with him, son."

Sam's eyes narrow -- he's not going to let anyone touch his brother -- but a soft hand on his shoulder relaxes him just a tad. Enough to take a step back and allow his uncle -- the very one Dean laid out days before -- lean in and gather Dean up in his arms.

Confusion must be written all over his face, because Alex pauses a moment before starting up the ramp. "It was Angela. She was worried."

_Huh_.

--

Angela Browning glides around an empty hospital bed and around the empty chair with ethereal grace, coffee cups grasped in each hand. She places one on the cluttered nightstand next to the occupied hospital bed and lays a hand on Sam Winchester's shoulder.

"You look like you haven't slept in days," she comments, holding out cup still in her hands. "Don't worry; mocha with skim milk, just the way you like it."

Sam accepts it with a grateful smile. "Thanks. Should I ask how you knew that?"

Angela simply gives him a deep look and takes a seat next to him, her eyes lingering over Dean's sleeping form. Only once did he wake up since arriving, long enough to hit on the nurse assisting with his cast and reassure Sam that everything was perfectly fine, and not to expect him to give up the driver's seat anytime soon.

Then promptly fell back asleep, leaving Sam to sit at his bedside in silence for the past day.

"You poor thing," Angela comments. She takes Sam's left hand and holds it tenderly in her own, fingers lingering over the bandages wrapped around his wrist.

"Dean would say I looked like a failed suicide attempt," he says. "That I'm such an emo."

Angela laughs softly. "In jest, I assume."

"Oh yeah," Sam rolls his eyes, "he never means any of it." He pauses, and looks over his brother's sleeping features. "At least, I hope so."

"I'm sure he doesn't. He's had odd ways of showing his affection ever since Mary's death."

Sam likes seeing her, if only for the information on his family he craves. Don't ask, don't tell has become their family motto, though Sam's annoyed both Dean and his father on several occasions by pushing when they'd already clammed up. Angela's face sobers when speaking of Mary, and so does Sam's; they let the silence linger for a moment of remembrance before Sam's curiosity gets the best of him.

"So, um, how did you know we'd be here? I mean, when? Honestly, _I_ didn't even, well, know how or _if_ we'd get out of there." There's more uncertainty in his voice than he'd intended; he seriously _had_ doubted getting away from that lighthouse and _her_.

"I was worried," Angela starts, looking down at her hands. "I knew something was wrong, not what, just _something_. I kept having dreams last night of the car driving up, of blood or," -- she pauses and shakes her head.

"Yeah, I know," Sam speaks up. "Sometimes, it's hard to describe it."

"Mary always could. Her visions were clearer, or so she said. When we were kids, she'd know small things; when dinner was done, the weather, if a boy would ask one of us out. Nothing huge."

"You say that like something changed."

Angela nods. "After Dean was born, things changed. Her visions became more intense; she'd call me in the middle of the night, _frightened_. When she told me she'd seen her death -- "

"Wait a second," Sam interrupts. His voice quivers. "She saw her _death_?"

His aunt sits quietly, a deer in headlights.

Anger swells up in Sam, anger, sadness, confusion; he shoots out of his chair and begins pacing the small area at the foot of Dean's bed. "She _knew_ she was going to die? _Knew_ something -- _that_ -- was going to happen, and didn't do _anything_ to prevent it?"

"What was she supposed to do, Sam?" Angela says. "Not have you?"

Her statement hits him like a bullet to the chest, and he stops mid-step with the impact. She knew she'd die after he was born? Knew what would happen? Sam sinks against the wall, tears shimmering in his brown eyes, and he can't help but stare at his brother.

It really _was_ all his fault.

"Oh, God..."

"It wasn't your fault, Sam," she tells him. "She knew how important you were, what you would do, all the people you'd save. Don't you take on responsibility for _her_ choice." Angela rises from her chair and pulls Sam into a hug. "You're so much like Mary, just as strong."

It's the first time anyone's told him he resembles his mother in any way, and Sam smiles against Angela's shoulder as he returns the embrace. She hugs him tighter than either of his family members, different than Jess, and he revels in it as long as he can before Angela pulls away and holds him out at arm's length.

"There's nothing wrong with you," she says. "You're perfect just the way you are."

--

"Please tell me you can smuggle in a cheeseburger. Anything with grease. Or _flavor_." Dean sits propped up with pillows, his left leg elevated in a sling attached to the ceiling. A very boring ceiling, without all the pit holes and shadows of the industrial parts most hospitals used. Instead, it's smooth and painted eggshell white with no distinguishing features; he can't tell which parts he's examined from new territory.

Sam sits hunched over his laptop next to him, a game of half-played solitary glaring off the screen in tones of bright green and white. He grabs a fry from a bag placed just outside Dean's reach and pops it in his mouth.

Dean groans. "This hospital food is _awful_. Just one fry?"

"Nope. Doctor's orders." Sam munches down on another and clicks around a few virtual cards.

"Put the eight back," Dean orders, motioning to the screen. "You've got one down there already."

Sam looks over the spread, raises his eyebrows, and hits undo. "Fine," he growls, placing the proper cards in their places, "you can have _one_." He grabs a fry from the bag and hands it -- slowly -- to Dean, who plucks it from his hand and holds it up in front of his face, examining it.

He chews it slower than Sam has ever seen his brother eat. "This," he says between chews, "is the best fry I've ever tasted." His swallow is exaggerated, and he smiles, satisfied. "Hey, what about the two?"

"Now you're just making stuff up," Sam remarks.

"Am not." He points to something on the screen, his finger bouncing into the LCD. "Right there."

"Don't touch the screen."

"Didn't mean to. Give me another fry or I'll kick your ass."

"Dean, I don't mean to shock you, but your leg's in a cast."

Dean snorts. "Like that'll stop me." He starts to wiggle a bit in the bed, and it takes Sam a moment to figure out he's trying to get at least one leg out of the tangle of blankets he's under.

"Okay, okay," Sam surrenders, pushing the bag closer so Dean can reach.

Dean pushes himself up a bit higher on the pillows and snags the bag, grinning wildly at the introduction of normal, _good_ food. Four meals carted in by a slightly overweight candy striper who, for once, he didn't find attractive, have dulled his taste buds. The fries, picked up from the small cafeteria, taste fantastic, the most wonderful, tasty French fries he's ever tasted, and Dean considers himself a coinsure.

He munches a few down and feels his stomach flip-flop; taking a pause -- something he finds painful even if his world's been colored with pain for the past few days -- he places a hand over his mouth and hopes he doesn't throw up. Twice in front of his brother is all his ego can handle, and here, all he's got is a plastic bin.

With a heavy heart, Dean closes up the bag and places it back on the side table. When a man can't even enjoy something as simple as fries...

He sighs and puts his hands behind his head, wondering if he can find any imperfections on this pass. The passes of the paintbrush wave up and down like the ocean; Dean blinks his eyes against the onslaught of images the association dredges up. Some, he's discovered over the past few days, are his own. Others, to his surprise, aren't. He suspects they're Thomas's; he had no idea how deep the little punk had gotten, but he knows he doesn't like carting his memories around.

They're varied; some of the ocean, some of life inside the keeper's house with his mother and father and, Dean's not sure about this one, a dog of some kind. It's like looking through a photo album and getting snippets of the conversation around him.

He focuses his eyes on the ceiling and tries to call up memories from the night of Thomas's death; he's still searching for clues of some kind to explain exactly what they stopped. Or helped. He's not sure _what_ they did, actually; most of his own memories are muddled, full of plot holes and mixed images.

"...get so good at solitary?"

Sam's voice pulls him from his forced reverie with a fragmented sentence.

"Huh?" Dean sets his eyes on Sam.

Sam shakes his head, but there's a lingering look in his brown eyes Dean can't help but notice.

And dislike.

"Where'd you go?" Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head, like Sam's just gone insane in the last three seconds. "What are you talking about? I'm right here. Just because I don't pay attention to your solitary game every second doesn't mean I'm checking out."

"Does that mean you're ready to hear what I found out?" his brother tries.

Dean grumbles and thinks for a moment, disguising it as boredom. His brother's been sitting there for _hours_ just bubbling with excitement over what he's found out, given the new information they "stumbled upon." He's wanted some time to distance himself from the entire event; it's easier to lock emotions up that way. Part of him fears hearing the story of _her_ might make him feel sympathetic, and he never wants to feel _sorry_ for someone who tried to kill him.

"Alright," he declares with a wave of his hand, "fine, go ahead."

The bright green of the solitary game is quickly replaced by a news article of some kind, the white light bouncing off the blank wall behind Sam and shining back in the same way metal catches light. This is no angel dancing on the walls; a devil in disguise, it _has_ to be.

"I never really looked into that missing persons report because her name was originally listed on the victims list for the fire," Sam says. He speaks in one rushed breath, overexcited to be sharing his research. Dean knows the tone, and folds his arms over his chest, ready for a lecture.

"But I cross-checked it with that ship we saw, you know, that crashed?"

"Yes, Sam, the one that crashed. Get _on_ with it." Dean punctuates the interruption with a fake yawn that quickly grows into a real one.

"She was _married_ to one of the whalers."

This catches Dean's interest. He leans up into a sitting position and starts speaking with his hands. "So her husband's on the ship. It crashed..."

"Because the light was out," Sam finishes for him.

Neither notice, or pretend not to. It's been happening a lot lately, ever since Dean woke up and started babbling. Just here and there they'll have the same thought, and while they might not express it the same, the meaning's there.

"Yeah," Dean says. "So, what? She was crazy? Suicidal? How long did those ships stay out, anyway? Months?"

"You know, Moby Dick was set here."

Dean blinks harshly at the non-sequitor. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

"If you'd read it..." Sam sighs. "A few months, yeah. Maybe a month if the season was coming to an end."

"So she's sitting there, all alone, goes crazy because her husband's unreachable, and, what? Notices the lighthouse's out all the way from town? What is she? Superwoman?"

Sam shrugs. "I don't know. But think about it. It fits. She knows there's a storm, goes to make sure everything's okay at the lighthouse, and sees that it's not. The ship would have made it to shore safely if the light had been on."

"Fine. Goes up, tries to fix it, dies."

"Pretty much."

Dean points a finger. "Why the hell did she hang around, then? For kicks?"

"She didn't see the ship crash. Why else would she throw herself off the cliff when she did."

"So she was waiting for her husband to return," Dean summarizes. _That's_ something he can identify with. Waiting. Being alone, with no one to keep you company but your thoughts as you sit out on the cold cement of the front steps wondering why your mother hasn't come home with the groceries yet.

Or why this isn't your house.

And damnit, he feels a pang of sorrow for _her_. For her plight. The uncertainty of when or _if_ someone you loved would return. Sitting on those steps. Head full of terrible, negative thoughts.

Hell, it almost drove him crazy.

"She felt abandoned," he says finally. "And had to find someone to replace her husband while she waited."

Sam cocks his head to the side. "Why?" Why, instead of _how would you know_?

"Fill the hole? Give her enough psychic power to keep waiting? What do I look like? The woman on the Psychic Network with the big hat of fruit and fake accent?"

Sam squints his eyes and Dean _knows_ he's toying with that picture.

"I guess she just got bored of Thomas," he continues.

"Or used up all his power," Sam counters. "Needed someone new."

"So I'm a battery now?"

Sam shrugs. He's silent, mulling something over in his head. Dean can almost see the wheels turning through his pensive, downcast eyes lined with dark circles; he'd come in and out of consciousness enough to know Sam rarely left his side and barely slept.

Dean's had enough of silence. "Ruth must've been a bystander. Saw her son out there, went to save him. That kind of thing. Too bad," he smirks a bit, "she was kinda hot."

There's a snort from Sam. "What is _wrong_ with you?"

"Huh? You're the one who got up close and personal!" Dean retorts. "With _both_ of them."

"How do you know about that?" Sam stammers, face turning a particularly bright shade of red at the memory of kissing _her_.

"You know, Thomas was like, robot ghost until Ruth started singing," Dean points out.

"Yeah." Sam shutters. "Hurt like hell, too."

"C'mon, her voice wasn't _that _bad."

Sam flounders, motioning lamely with his hands. Is his brother _that_ thick? "She used me as some kind of psychic amplifier."

"Well, I told you that Shining would get you into trouble."

He must have said it with more seriousness than he intended, because Sam turns those big, sympathetic eyes on him except they're more angry than anything else.

"What is it with you?" he asks. "Is it because your jealous, or are you scared? 'Cause I don't know how much longer I can take all these psychic jokes without punching you in the face."

"Whoah, Sammy, where's this coming from?"

"Seriously, Dean, I just...its hard enough dealing with it myself without you pointing it out all the time."

"Dude, I'm just playing with you. No need to get all sappy on me."

"That's the thing," Sam says, eyes flickering down to study the tiled floor. "I _know_ you are. I _know_ you don't mean anything by it -- "

"Yeah. So drop it."

Eyes come back to match with his, blazing. "Why, because you say so? When do I get _my_ say, Dean?"

"I'm not going anywhere," Dean points out. "Just asked out of, you know, curtsey."

"Maybe this was a good thing, then," Sam spits out, "it'll force you to listen to people."

"Did you just say me _breaking my leg_ was a good thing? Cause I could swear you didn't say something that stupid."

Sam leans against the plastic white footboard, arms crossed. That bubbling, excitement he held before is gone, replaced with anger and resentment so strong, Dean can almost physically feel it in the air.

It reminds him of his brother in the weeks before leaving.

And he thinks -- _oh, God, is he going to leave again?_ -- he's pushed him too far this time.

How easy it would be to keep pushing, to _know_ it was cold-hearted comments made for this very reason, that drove him away, and not the deep truth of Dean, kept carefully hidden?

"Yeah, man, maybe I am a little jealous," he says slowly, carefully. Measuring out the impact of each word. Because the truth is, he could care less about having whatever Sam has because it scares the _shit_ out of him. Telling Sam _that_ would be like telling him, well, that he's frightened of his own brother.

He presses on. "Maybe I want to know why you get all the special powers, and I'm left saving your ass. Or dad's. Why you get singled out and I'm left to be the, what did you say? The perfect little soldier. You get to be _normal_ for awhile, then come back and even outdo me at my own game. So yeah."

"You're bringing up _that_ again?" Sam shouts. "I thought we were over that. You _know_ I didn't mean anything."

"And you _know_ I don't mean anything. Kinda a double standard there, Sammy. And here all I'm doing is teasing."

"Yeah, well, stop it."

"Or what? You'll kill me with your mind?"

Sam huffs. "Yeah, maybe."

"You do that."

Since only one of them is actually able to leave the room, Sam stalks towards the door, huffing all the way with anger. Dean lays there -- _he's fucking leaving_ -- and does the only thing he knows; he pushes more, and can already feel the pain of being _alone_ creeping up around the edges of his soul.

Sam's almost to the door, hand extended for the latch. Last ditch efforts are something Dean's never been very good at, but he tries anyway.

"Then who'll rescue you, huh?"

Sam whirls, pivoting around to face Dean. Dean, lying pale in a hospital bed, leg in a cast and up in a sling. Helpless, angry, scared Dean.

But he's just too angry. "You're not jealous, you're fucking scared, Dean. That, I can tell. Go ahead, say its part of this, this _thing_ I've got. But it's not. You're my brother, and I know. I'm scared too. You want it? Really want it? Think about why Thomas chose _you_. Think about _that_. But you know what you're more frightened of?"

"What?" Dean yells.

"Me leaving." Sam wrenches the door open and lets it slam closed behind him.

Dean leans back against the pillows, pain flowing just as freely as anger -- or is it regret? -- and shakes his head. "Good one, Dean. Fucking perfect."

11


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

A day later, and the brothers find themselves, once again, guests of their aunt and uncle, Angela intent on taking care of both of them in any way she can. The way she flutters around the house, bringing meals to Dean in the office-turned-bedroom and listening to Sam's stories from college, screams she's missing her own children and finds the addition of the brothers, no matter how short they claim their stay will be, refreshing.

Sam's moved into the empty room of a cousin away at school, preferring his own space, he says, though Dean knows he's still angry and is too stubborn to say anything.

Because _he's_ too stubborn to say anything.

He lays on the bed in the office Sam once used, thankful the floral prints have been traded for a set of clean, soft solid blue ones, though the comforter still sports the sickly peach and blue assortment of flowers. He tries to ignore them, pouring his energy into the stack of books Angela's left at his bedside, a few magazines poking out at odd angles here and there.

With only one television in the house, he's forced to _think_. Really think, ponder, wonder, and with each hour, he goes over the nuances of his argument with Sam, letting his mind wander to those foreign memories when he's had enough.

Twiddles his thumbs -- literally. Tries a solitary spread atop the covers a few times until Angela takes pity on him and provides a tray. When that gets bored, he tries to play both sides in a game of war, but finds it's no fun when competing with yourself at cards.

After a day sequestered in the office-turned-bedroom, he picks up a copy of "Moby Dick" and gives it a try.

It's heavy reading, and when he takes breaks, he thinks about Thomas.

His brother's proposal -- that Thomas chose him for a reason -- puzzles him. Sam's the one with the new shiny powers, not him. Wouldn't, then, Thomas chose Sam for his abilities, and not Dean, the painfully normal one of the two of them?

Then there's his theory, which has been proven several times over by this point; that Sam's abilities were inherited from their mother. He tells himself that's why she apologized to Sam when they saw her; because she'd given him this gift that's turning out of be a curse, not because she felt more towards her younger son.

The bit about proving it, though, is where everything gets sticky. That Angela, too, would have the gift would mean it wasn't just passed from one to another, but from a parent to _all_ their children.

Dean groans and doesn't want to think of himself as a mega-freak, so he picks the book up again and shuts his mind down for a few more hours.

He's reading when Alex walks by the room and leans against the doorframe. He has the same air about him as Dean's father, the kind that makes you look up right away when he's entered the room even if you're absorbed in something else. Just a glance as if to say, yeah, I see you.

Alex catches Dean's eye when he gives the acknowledging glance. "Still aren't talking, huh?"

"To who?" Dean asks.

"You know, your brother."

Dean flattens the pages of the book in his hands and flips it upside down on his stomach. "I guess. He's not exactly opening up, either."

"You're both as stubborn as your father." Alex accepts Dean's light conversation as an invitation to come in, and he sweeps through the room to take a seat on the couch.

Dean frowns at the mention of his father. There's no way he can stand up for anyone, now, and who knows where this conversation will go.

"Don't look like that," Alex comments. "I came to say I'm sorry for what I said about your dad."

"Really," Dean deadpans.

Alex sighs, leaning his elbows on his knees. "There are things between men that -- "

"Oh, spare me," Dean sighs. "Please. If you've got a problem with my dad, that's fine. It's not why I hit you."

"You're not talking to your brother, but you swing a good right hook for him?"

"Damn straight. He doesn't deserve it, okay? He was, what, one? Or whatever. Whenever you had this tiff."

"It wasn't a tiff, Dean," Alex says. "It was...more."

"Do I really want to know?"

"Maybe."

Dean's not one for confessions of the heart, for spilling the past when there's nothing that can be done. Some things are better kept as secrets, locked far away from prying eyes, past where memory hides from the conscious.

"Your father's a more accepting man," Alex explains. He has the tone of a man heavy with the words of confession, and Dean curses his inability to get up and avoid the moment. "We fought because I was unable to accept Angela and her _abilities_; couldn't accept your mother. She warned me, you know, about my first heart attack. I was a bit angry and forceful with her."

"Yeah. I can guess my dad didn't take too well with that," scoffs Dean.

Alex smiles. "No, your old man gave me quite a scare and told me I was being a close-minded fool. Not with those exact words, though."

No. John Winchester wasn't the most eloquent speaker, but he had no problem getting his point across.

"Anyway," Alex says, standing. He gives Dean a pat on his good leg. "I think now I'm beginning to think he was right. I don't know how to even begin to explain this all, but if it weren't for Angela -- " Alex shakes his head. "I'm glad you boys are safe."

Alex leaves the room. Leaves Dean to contemplate the years of anger Alex held for his father just because he had more of an open mind. If Alex can finally change his mind, maybe it's not too late for Dean.

--

Spring ebbs away to summer, the spray coming off the ocean clean and fresh in small droplets of mist. It spatters onto Sam's face as he walks along the side of the ferry and climbs the stairs to the upper level, two cups in his hands. He makes no move to wipe it off; instead, he closes his eyes at the top of the stairs and lets it drop into his hair and down his nose.

The mist's inviting when it's coming off the bay instead of the wide open ocean on the south and west of the island. Here, it means returning to the mainland, going back to life as he knows it. Staying put for a month and a half has him itching to _get moving_, to feel the car humming around him, wide open possibility looming out the windshield. For all the times he's wished for a place to call home, he realizes he's past that, over that quest for normality.

Apparently, Dean _has_ rubbed off on him. A bit.

Sam smiles -- he's never going to admit _that_ to his brother -- and rounds the front gallery of seats to the back of the ship. Dean's sitting on a bench facing the island, left leg still encased in a long, white cast, crutches leaning against the railing next to him. He's doing that staring off into space thing Sam's caught him doing ever since waking up in the hospital, just looking off into the distance wistfully.

He walks up behind his brother and taps him lightly on the shoulder, pulling him back from wherever he's gone, and hands over the cup of coffee.

"What took you so long?" Dean asks. He takes a long sip and sighs, content. "Ahh, that hit the spot."

"You wouldn't need it if you hadn't insisted on leaving so early." Sam sits next to him and drinks his own mocha.

Dean slaps him on the shoulder. "C'mon, Sammy! Don't tell me you wanted to stay there."

"It was nice..."

"Nice? Nice? I was going to go crazy if I had to sit there a minute longer. Don't get me wrong, they're nice people, but I'm a movin' man."

"'Movin' Man?' What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know, not tied down. Always moving. Going where the wind blows, and all that crap."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Sure."

"Don't patronize me, college boy."

Sam holds his hands up in mock surrender, grinning. It took awhile, after their argument in Dean's hospital room, to fall back into their pattern of mutual teasing and cheap shots; Sam found himself uncomfortable with Dean's easy-going nature after realizing how scared his brother was for him, and always looked for a double-meaning.

He never found any. Dean revealed himself in bit and pieces hidden within his off the cuff remarks, as honest as Sam though not as direct. He takes what he can get, finally seeing his brother's strengths as clearly as his own. They stand on equal ground, now, those dark thoughts from before a distant memory, reminding him to always value what he has. A month later, they were better than before, at least Sam thought so, anticipating more than movement on a hunt.

Except for one thing.

"Where do you go?" Sam asks. His blood pulses through his veins, ringing in his ears; he's nervous, curious, wondering if Dean will even answer.

"When?"

Sam waves his arm at the sky. "You know, when you space out."

"I don't space out."

"Dean, you just did before I walked up here," Sam laughs.

"I was thinking."

"About?"

Dean furrows his brow. "Stuff. Why do you want to know?"

Why _does_ he want to know? Isn't it possible for them to have separate lives, even though they follow the same wayward path? Maybe, this time, Sam has to let it go, trust his brother knows what he's doing, and leave it at that.

They sit in silence, watching the island grow smaller and smaller in the distance until it's a green and blue dot on the horizon, a small mark representing something much larger.

Dean speaks up first. "Thomas. He...left some stuff. I'd like to know exactly what."

"What kind of stuff."

A shrug. "Memories, stuff like that."

It should surprise Sam, send him into a tirade of questions, but it doesn't. There's something calming about the way Dean admits it, a deep layer of trust there that didn't exist before. _Let it go_.

"You think he's okay?"

"Yeah," Dean breaths, shifting on the bench. "I do."

Sam nods, and turns back to the sea. The island's gone now, and the voice on the loudspeaker's asking for people to return to their vehicles and prepare for disembarking. He swears, for a second, he can see a bright glint of sunlight swing by and catch on the railing, but the instant he sees it, it's gone, a momentary flash of light.

Beside him, Dean's struggling to stand, moving awkwardly until he finds his balances and grabs his crutches. "Hey," he says, "let's get out of here."

"Yeah," Sam replies absently, standing. He moves to help Dean find balance, but his brother waves him off.

"I'm good. Just catch me if I fall."

Sam thinks, _I can do that_.

He looks behind them, then turns away. Lets the past be the past. They're done here, finished with this case and this ghost and these memories. It's just him and Dean, the way it should be.

Dean clamors down the stairs, Sam behind him. "And if you think you're driving," Dean starts, but Sam, falling into their new habit, finishes for him.

"Yeah, yeah. Ass is grass. I _get it._"

5


End file.
